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f  CALIFORNIA 


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LIBRARY 


ILitrrature 


THE  LITTLE  BOOK  OF 
AMERICAN  POETS 

1787-1900 

EDITED    BY 

JESSIE   B.   RITTENHOUSE 

Editor  of  The  Little  Book  of  Modern  Verse 


HOUGHTON  MIFFLIN  COMPANY 

BOSTON      •      NEW  YORK      •       CHICAGO      •      DALLAS 
SAN  FRANCISCO 

£ijc  Ribcrsibc  $)rcG&  (Cambridge 


COPYRIGHT,   1915,   1917,   BY  JESSIE    B.  RITTENHOUSB 
ALL   RIGHTS   RESERVED 


CAMBRIDGE  .   MASSACHUSETTS 
PRINTED  IN  THE  D  .  S  .   A 


PREFACE 

The  Little  Book  of  American  Poets  is  designed  as  a  com- 
panion volume  to  The  Little  Book  of  Modern  Verse,  the 
former  covering  the  nineteenth  century  as  the  latter 
covers  the  twentieth.  Each  volume  is  complete  hi 
itself,  but  together  they  form  a  compendium  of  Ameri- 
can poetry  from  the  period  of  Philip  Freneau  to  the 
present. 

It  is  not  the  scheme  of  the  volume  to  make  a  de- 
tailed survey  of  American  verse,  since  Stedman  and 
others  have  done  this  in  collections  which  still  remain 
authoritative,  but  rather  to  garner  those  poems  which 
time  has  winnowed  from  the  mass,  to  present  in  com- 
pact form  some  of  the  finer  and  more  enduring  things 
in  our  poetic  literature. 

It  must  be  remembered  that  the  technique  of  poetry 
changes  and  that  work  excellent,  even  supreme,  in  its 
own  period,  may  not  meet  the  standard  of  ours.  Such 
a  standard,  however,  should  not  be  applied  to  it.  Any 
art  must  be  judged  as  the  expression  of  its  time,  by  its 
value  as  interpreting  the  age  which  produced  it.  Form 
changes  less,  perhaps,  from  period  to  period,  than  the 
vision,  the  spirit  of  the  age.  The  poet  of  to-day  is  con- 
cerned with  themes  unknown  to  the  poet  of  yesterday. 
The  subject-matter  of  poetry  has,  indeed,  undergone 
so  radical  a  change  that  it  will  be  interesting  to  note 
the  diversity  in  content  of  The  Little  Book  of  American 
Poets  and  The  Little  Book  of  Modern  Verse. 

To  represent  the  nineteenth  century  more  ade- 


PREFACE 


quately,  several  poets  included  in  the  former  collec- 
tion, whose  work  has  fallen  almost  equally  within  the 
two  periods,  are  repeated  in  this  volume.  The  selec- 
tions, however,  are  distinct.  Preference  in  space  in 
this  collection  has  naturally  been  given  to  those  not 
included  in  the  other,  and  if  the  representation  of  any 
contemporary  poet  seem  inadequate,  it  will  be  found 
that  his  work  is  much  more  fully  presented  in  The 
Little  Book  of  Modern  Verse. 

JESSIE  B.  RITTENHOUSE. 

August,  1915. 


CONTENTS 

PHILIP  FRENEAU   (1752-1832) 

Song  of  Thyrsis 3 

The  Indian  Burying-Ground 3 

JOSEPH  RODMAN  DRAKE   (1795-1820) 

The  American  Flag 5 

JAMES  GATES  PERCIVAL   (1795-1836) 

Elegiac 7 

FITZ- GREENE  HALLECK   (1790-1867) 

On  the  Death  of  Joseph  Rodman  Drake  .      ,      .      8 

JOHN   PIERPONT   (1785-1866) 

My  Child 9 

RICHARD  HENRY  DANA   (1787-1879) 

The  Little  Beach-Bird 12 

WILLIAM  CULLEN   BRYANT   (1794-1878) 

To  a  Waterfowl 13 

Thanatopsis 14 

The  Death  of  the  Flowers 17 

EDWARD  COATE  PINKNEY   (1802-1828) 

A  Health 19 

Song 20 

RALPH  WALDO  EMERSON   (1803-1882) 

Days 21 

Bacchus 21 

The  Problem 24 

Brahma 26 

Terminus 27 

CHARLES  FENNO  HOFFMAN   (1806-1884) 

Monterey £3 


CONTENTS 


HENRY  WADSWORTH  LONGFELLOW  (1807-1882) 

Divina  Commedia 29 

Giotto's  Tower 30 

My  Lost  Youth 30 

The  Fire  of  Driftwood 34 

NATHANIEL  PARKER  WILLIS   (1806-1867) 

Unseen  Spirits 36 

JOHN  GREENLEAF  WHITTIER   (1807-1892) 

The  Eternal  Goodness 37 

My  Playmate 40 

The  Barefoot  Boy 43 

Ichabod 46 

EDGAR  ALLAN  POE   (1809-1849) 

Israfel 47 

The  Valley  of  Unrest 49 

To  One  in  Paradise 50 

To  Helen :    V     •       •  51 

SARAH  HELEN  WHITMAN   (1803-1878) 

To  Edgar  Allan  Poe 52 

JOHN  HENRY  BONER   (1845-1903) 

Poe's  Cottage  at  Fordham 52 

OLIVER  WENDELL  HOLMES  (1809-1894) 

The  Chambered  Nautilus 54 

The  Last  Leaf 56 

CHRISTOPHER  PEARSE  CRANCH   (1813-1892) 

Gnosis 58 

JAMES  ALDRICH   (1810-1856) 

A  Death-Bed 59 

JONES  VERY   (1813-1880) 

Yourself 59 

The  Idler 60 

HENRY  DAVID  THOREAU   (1817-1862) 

My  Prayer 60 

Inspiration 61 

Smoke 62 


CONTENTS 


AMOS  BRONSON  ALCOTT   (1799-1888) 

Thoreau (& 

LOUISA  MAY  ALCOTT   (1832-1888) 

Thoreau's  Flute 63 

WILLIAM  ELLERY  CHANNING   (1818-1901) 

Tears  in  Spring 64 

JAMES  RUSSELL  LOWELL   (1819-1891) 

She  Came  and  Went 66 

My  Love 66 

Commemoration  Ode 68 

Auspex 82 

MARIA  WHITE  LOWELL   (1821-1853) 

Song         .'»'.' 82 

JOSIAH  GILBERT  HOLLAND   (1819-1881) 

Gradatim 81 

WILLIAM  WETMORE  STORY   (1819-1895) 

Praxiteles  and  Phryne 86 

THOMAS  WILLIAM  PARSONS   (1819-1892) 

On  a  Bust  of  Dante 87 

Dirge 89 

THEODORE  O'HARA   (1820-1867) 

The  Bivouac  of  the  Dead 91 

GEORGE  HENRY  BOKER   (1823-1890) 

Dirge  for  a  Soldier 94 

JULIA  WARD  HOWE   (1819-1910) 

The  Battle-Hymn  of  the  Republic       ....    95 

THOMAS  BUCHANAN  READ   (1822-1872) 

The  Brave  at  Home 96 

Drifting 97 

The  Closing  Scene 100 

WALT  WHITMAN    (1819-1892) 

The  Last  Invocation 103 

Out  of  the  Cradle  Endlessly  Rocking  .       .       .       .104 
Death  Carol  (From  "  When  Lilacs  Last  in  the  Door- 
yard  Bloomed") 112 


xii  CONTENTS 


Give  Me  the  Splendid  Silent  Sun 113 

A  Noiseless,  Patient  Spider 116 

THOMAS     WENTWORTH     HIGGINSON     (1823- 
1911) 

The  Snowing  of  the  Pines 116 

The  Trumpeter 117 

ALICE  CARY   (1820-1871) 

The  Blackbird 117 

LUCY  LARCOM   (1824-1893) 

A  Strip  of  Blue 118 

HENRY  HOWARD   BROWNELL   (1820-1872) 

The  Burial  of  the  Dane 121 

CHARLES  GODFREY  LELAND  (1824-1903) 

The  Two  Friends 123 

BAYARD  TAYLOR   (1825-1878) 

Tyre 124 

Song 126 

Bedouin  Song 127 

JULIA  C.   R.  DORR   (1825-1912) 

To  a  Late  Comer 128 

JOSEPH  BROWNLEE  BROWN   (1824-1888) 

"Thalatta!  Thalatta!" 129 

PHCEBE  CARY   (1824-1871) 

Nearer  Home 129 

Alas! 130 

GEORGE  WILLIAM  CURTIS   (1824-1892) 

Ebb  and  Flow 131 

RICHARD  HENRY  STODDARD   (1825-1903) 

The  Plight  of  Youth 132 

Birds 132 

ELIZABETH  STODDARD   (1823-1902) 

Mercedes 133 

FRANCIS  MILES  FINCH   (1827-1907) 

The  Blue  and  the  Gray     . 134 


CONTENTS 


HENRY  TIMROD   (1829-1867) 

At  Magnolia  Cemetery 136 

Spring 137 

Quatorzain 138 

CHARLES  DUDLEY   WARNER   (1829-1900) 

Bokra 139 

JOHN  TOWNSEND   TROWBRIDGE   (1827-1916) 

Midwinter 140 

S.   WEIR   MITCHELL   (1829-1914) 

Evening   .       ..,„., 141 

Of  One  who  Seemed  to  have  Failed      .       .       .       .142 

PAUL  HAMILTON  HAYNE   (1831-1886) 

In  Harbor. 143 

A  Little  While  I  Fain  would  Linger  Yet    .      .      .  145 

EMILY  DICKINSON   (1830-1886) 

Parting 146 

Choice 146 

Suspense 147 

Peace        .      .  "  i  ! 147 

Chartless 147 

ELIZABETH  AKERS  ALLEN   (1832-1911) 

My  Deariing 148 

Sea-Birds 149 

HELEN   HUNT  JACKSON   (1831-1885) 

Coronation 149 

Spinning 151 

EDMUND   CLARENCE  STEDMAN  (1833-1908) 

Mors  Benefica 152 

Falstaff's  Song 153 

Proven  gal  Lovers        ........  154 

ANNIE  FIELDS   (1834-1915) 

Theocritus 156 

RICHARD   REALF   (1834-1878) 

Indirection 157 

NORA   PERRY   (1832-1896) 

Some  Day  of  Days 158 


CONTENTS 


SIDNEY  HENRY  MORSE   (1833-        ) 

Sundered 159 

LOUISE  CHANDLER  MOULTON   (1835-1908) 

HicJacet 160 

The  Last  Good-Bye 161 

HARRIET  PRESCOTT  SPOFFORD   (1835-1921) 

Ballad 162 

CELIA  THAXTER   (1835-1894) 

The  Sandpiper 162 

JOHN  JAMES  PIATT   (1835-1917) 

Ireland 163 

THOMAS  BAILEY  ALDRICH   (1836-1907) 

Memory 164 

Palabras  Carinosas 165 

Song  from  the  Persian 165 

The  Flight  of  the  Goddess 166 

Enamored  Architect  of  Airy  Rhyme     .       .       .       .168 

SARAH  M.   B.   PIATT   (1836-        ) 

After  Wings 169 

WILLIAM  WINTER   (1836-1917) 

Refuge 169 

The  Rubicon .  170 

WILLIAM  DEAN  HOWELLS   (1837-1920) 

If 171 

What  Shall  it  Profit  ?.      .       .      .      .       .       .       .  171 

JOHN  HAY   (1838-1905) 

The  Stirrup-Cup 172 

JAMES  RYDER  RANDALL   (1839-1908) 

My  Maryland 172 

ETHEL  LYNN  BEERS   (1827-1879) 

The  Picket-Guard 175 

FRANCIS  BRET  HARTE   (1839-1902) 

Relieving  Guard 177 

Dickens  in  Camp 177 

To  a  Sea-Bird ,      .  179 


CONTENTS 


EDNA  DEAN  PROCTOR    (1838-1923) 
TakeHeart    .;    fob,     ,  „'  .. 


JOHN  WHITE  CHADWICK   (1840-1904) 

The  Making  of  Man   ........  180 


JOAQUIN  MILLER   (1841-1913) 

181 

Sea-Blown      

,       .  181 

Columbus       

,       .  182 

The  Yukon     .       .      .     f..  ,v  .      .       . 

.  183 

EDWARD   ROWLAND  SILL   (1841-1887) 

Opportunity   

.  186 

The  Fool's  Prayer       ^*    ;;     .      .      . 

.  180 

Life    . 

188 

CHARLES  WARREN  STODDARD   (1843-1909) 

A  Rhyme  of  Life  .       .       . 188 

JAMES  HERBERT  MORSE   (1841-        ) 

The  Power  of  Beauty        ..>     .    -i      .      .'     C      .  189 

MARY  THACHER  HIGGINSON   (1844-        ) 

Inheritance     .      . 190 

SIDNEY  LANIER   (1842-1881) 

Evening  Song  ....  ;:.  ;,:^  •  •  •'  •  •  191 
A  Ballad  of  Trees  and  the  Master  .  .  .  .191 
The  Stirrup-Cup  .':  Lr  j  ; 192 

JOHN  BURROUGHS   (1837-1921) 

Waiting 193 

JOHN  BOYLE  O'REILLY   (1844-1890) 

What  is  Good       .      .      .     >V  ,      ^    .  .      .      .194 

At  Best 194 

A  White  Rose       .      ....  1      .       .      .      .195 

RICHARD  WATSON  GILDER  (1844-1909) 

The  Woods  that  Bring  the  Sunset  Near     .       .       .195 

Song>  .196 

I  Count  My  Time  by  Times  that  I  Meet  Thee  .  196 
After-Song 197 


CONTENTS 


MARY   ELIZABETH   BLAKE   (1840-1907) 

In  Exile 197 

The  Dawning  o'  the  Year 198 

MAURICE  THOMPSON   (1844-1901) 

A  Prelude 200 

EDGAR  FAWCETT  (1847-1904) 

To  an  Oriole 201 

Fireflies 202 

JOHN  B.   TABB   (1845-1909) 

Evolution 203 

To  Shelley 203 

ARTHUR   SHERBURNE  HARDY   (1847-        ) 

Iter  Supreraum 203 

WILL  THOMPSON   (1848-        ) 

The  High  Tide  at  Gettysburg 204 

EMMA  LAZARUS   (1846-1887) 

On  the  Proposal  to  Erect  a  Monument  in  England 

to  Lord  Byron         . 207 

Venus  of  the  Louvre 208  . 

JOHN   VANCE   CHENEY    (1848-1922) 

One 209 

Days  that  Come  and  Go          209 

WALTER  LEARNED    (1847-1915) 

In  Explanation 210 

INA  COOLBRITH 

Fruitionless 210 

When  the  Grass  shall  Cover  Me 211 

ARLO   BATES   (1850-1918) 

The  Pool  of  Sleep 212 

EUGENE   FIELD    (1850-1895) 

Wynken,  Blynken,  and  Nod    .       .    •  .       .       .       .213 
Little  Boy  Blue 214 

GRACE  DENIO  LITCHFIELD   (1849-        ) 

To  a  Hurt  Child 215 


CONTENTS 


FLORENCE   EARLE  COATES   (1850-        ) 

The  House  of  Pain 216 

GEORGE   PARSONS  LATHROP   (1851-1898) 

The  Sunshine  of  Thine  Eyes 217 

HENRY  VAN  DYKE   (1852-        ) 

The  Wind  of  Sorrow   ........  217 

The  Veery 218 

EDWIN   MARKHAM   (1852-        ) 

Joy  of  the  Morning 219 

A  Look  into  the  Gulf 220 

Lion  and  Lioness 220 

ROBERT  UNDERWOOD   JOHNSON   (1853-        ) 

Browning  at  Asolo 221 

Love  and  Italy      .       .       .'."..       .       .       .222 

ELLEN  MACKAY  HUTCHINSON 

Her  Picture    .       .'     ,'     ,'     .      ,•     .   '.       .       .223 

JAMES  WHITCOMB  RILEY   (1853-1910) 

When  She  Comes  Home .  224 

Bereaved 225 

The  Old  Man  and  Jim 225 

SAMUEL  MINTURN  PECK   (1854-        ) 

The  Captain's  Feather 228 

GEORGE   EDWARD   WOODBERRY   (1855-        ) 

The  Daisies 229 

Divine  Awe 230 

HENRY  CUYLER   BUNNER   (1855-189G) 

Strong  as  Death 230 

LIZETTE  WOODWORTH  REESE   (1856-        ) 

Wise 231 

In  Time  of  Grief  . 232 

CHARLES  HENRY  LUDERS   (1858-1891) 

The  Four  Winds  .      .• 232 

EDITH  M.  THOMAS   (1854-        ) 

The  Old  Soul 23? 

Evoe:  •     .•  .235 


CONTENTS 


ELLA   WHEELER   WILCOX    (1855-1919) 

Sonnet 237 

^Interlude 237 

The  World's  Need 238 

WILLIAM  HERBERT  CARRUTH   (1859-        ) 

Each  in  his  Own  Tongue          238 

JOHN  JAMES  INGALLS   (1833-1900) 

Opportunity 239 

WALTER   MALONE   (1866-1915) 

Opportunity 240 

JAMES  B.   KEN  YON   (1858-        ) 

The  Racers 241 

The  Cricket 241 

ADA  FOSTER  MURRAY 

Prevision 243 

DANSKF   DANDRIDGE   (1858-          ) 
> The  Spirit  of  the  Fall 244 

FRANK  DEMPSTER  SHERMAN   (1860-1916) 

Dies  Ultima 244 

^-—  On  a  Greek  Vase 245 

CLINTON  SCOLLARD    (1860-        ) 

If  Only  the  Dreams  Abide 246 

Khamsin 247 

HAMLIN  GARLAND    (1860-        ) 

Do  You  Fear  the  Wind? 249 

In  the  Grass 249 

RICHARD   BURTON   (1859-        ) 

The  City 250 

"^-The  Human  Touch 251 

SOPHIE  JEWETT   (1861-1909) 

^-Thus  Far 251 

^^In  the  Dark 252 

FRANK  L.   STANTON   (1857-        ) 

A  Little  W?y         , 252 


CONTENTS 


SUSAN   MARK  SPALDING 

^Fate—    ..     ., 253 

ELLA  HIGGINSON 

Beggars 253 

ANNE   REEVE   ALDRICH    (1866-1892) 

A  Little  Parable 254 

Love's  Change 255 

VIRGINIA  WOODWARD  CLOUD 

Care. 255 

LOUISE  IMOGEN   GUINEY   (1861-1920) 

Beati  Mortui 256 

Sanctuary 257 

BLISS  CARMAN   (1861-        ) 

The  Juggler    .       .      V     .; 258 

The  Gravedigger  .      .i(.      ,.      .....       .260 

HELEN  GRAY  CONE   (1859-        ) 

A  Chant  of  Love  for  England         .....  264 

RICHARD   HOVEY   (1864-1900) 

The  Kavanagh .  263 

At  the  Crossroads -  *    .  •       -265 

GEORGE  SANTAYANA   (1863-        ) 

On  the  Death  of  a  Metaphysician        ....  267 

MADISON   CAWEIN    (1865-1914) 

Ka  Klux 267 

The  Rain-Crow 268 

ERNEST  McGAFFEY   (1861-        ) 

I  Fear  No  Power  a  Woman  Wields      .       .       .       .270 

CHARLES  BUXTON   GOING   (1863-        ) 

To  Arcady 270 

The  East  Wind 271 

HARRIET  MONROE   (1860-        ) 

Love  Song 272 

A  Farewell 272 

The  Shadow-Child 273 

GERTRUDE  HALL   (1863-        ) 

^    One  Distant  April 274 


CONTENTS 


RICHARD  LE   GALLIENNE   (1866-        ) 

Flos  Aevorum 275 

What  of  the  Darkness  ? 277 

vPHILIP  HENRY  SAVAGE   (1868-1899) 

^^Infinity 277 

WILLIAM  VAUGHN  MOODY   (1869-1910) 

Pandora  Song 278 

"Of  Wounds  and  Sore  Defeat" 279 

On  a  Soldier  Fallen  in  the  Philippines         .       .       .280 

GUY  WETMORE   CARRYL   (1873-1904) 

When  the  Great  Gray  Ships  Come  In  .       .      .       .281 

PAUL  LAURENCE  DUNBAR   (1872-1906) 

Lullaby 283 

Compensation 285 

INDEX   OF  FIRST  LINES 287 

INDEX   OF  TITLES 295 

INDEX  OF  AUTHORS  .  303 


ACKNOWLEDGMENTS 

THANKS  are  due  the  following  publishers,  and  indi- 
vidual owners  of  copyright,  for  their  kind  permission 
to  include  selections  from  the  volumes  enumerated 
below : — 

Messrs.  D.  Appleton  &  Co.:  Poetical  Works  of  William 
Cullen  Bryant;  Poems  by  Fitz-Greene  Halleck;  "Songs  of 
the  Soil,"  by  Frank  L.  Stanton. 

Richard  Badger:  "The  Guest  at  the  Gate,"  by  Edith  M. 
Thomas. 

The  Bobbs-MerrillCo.:  Selections  from  the  Biographical  Edi- 
tion of  The  Complete  Works  of  James  Whitcomb  Riley. 

Messrs.  Thomas  Y.  Crowell  Co.:  Collected  Poems  of  Sophie 
Jewett. 

Messrs.  W.  B.  Conkey  Co.:  Selections  from  "Poems  of  Prob- 
lems" and  "Picked  Poems,"  by  Ella  Wheeler  Wilcox. 

The  Century  Co.:  Collected  Poems  of  S.  Weir  Mitchell;  Col- 
lected  Poems  of  Robert  Underwood  Johnson;  "Poe's  Cot- 
tage at  Fordham,"  by  John  Henry  Boner;  "High  Tide  at 
Gettysburg,"  by  Will  H.  Thompson ;  "  Care,"  by  Virginia 
Woodward  Cloud. 

Messrs.  Dodd,  Mead  &  Co.:  "Lyrics  of  the  Hearthside"  and 
"Lyrics  of  Sunshine  and  Shadow,"  by  Paul  Laurence  Dunbar. 

Messrs.  Doubleday,  Page  &  Co.:  "The  Man  With  the  Hoe, 
and  Other  Poems"  and  "The  Shoes  of  Happiness,"  by 
Edwin  Markham. 

Messrs.  Duffield  &  Co.:  Poems  by  George  Santayana. 

Messrs.  Funk  and  Wagnalls  Co. :  Collected  Poems  of  Richard 
Realf. 

Messrs.  Harper  &  Bros.:  "Stops  of  Various  Quills,"  by  Wil- 
liam Dean  Howells;  Poems  by  George  William  Curtis; 
"Flower  o'  the  Grass,"  by  Ada  Foster  Murray;  "Star- 
Glow  and  Song,"  by  Charles  Buxton  Going. 


ACKNOWLEDGMENTS 


Messrs.  Houghton  Mifflin  Co.:  Poems  of  Thomas  Bailey 
Aldrich;  Arlo  Bates;  Mary  Elizabeth  Blake;  John  Bur- 
roughs; Alice  and  Phoebe  Gary;  John  White  Chadwiclr 
Ina  Coolbrith;  Florence  Earle  Coates;  John  Vance  Cheney 
Helen  Gray  Cone;  Christopher  Pearse  Cranch;  RalpL 
Waldo  Emerson;  Annie  Fields;  Edgar  Fawcett;  Richard 
Watson  Gilder;  Louise  Imogen  Guiney;  Oliver  Wendell 
Holmes;  Bret  Harte;  Thomas  Wentworth  Higginson;  Mary 
Thacher  Higginson;  John  Hay;  Ellen  Mackay  Hutchin- 
son;  Julia  Ward  Howe;  Lucy  Larcom;  Emma  Lazarus; 
Henry  Wadsworth  Longfellow;  James  Russell  Lowell; 
Maria  White  Lowell;  William  Vaughn  Moody;  Thomas 
William  Parsons;  Edna  Dean  Proctor;  Nora  Perry;  Lizette 
Wood  worth  Reese;  Clinton  Scollard;  Frank  Dempster 
Sherman;  Edward  Rowland  Sill;  Harriet  Prescott  Spof- 
ford;  Edmund  Clarence  Stedman;  Elizabeth  Stoddard; 
William  Wetmore  Story;  Bayard  Taylor;  Celia  Thaxter; 
Edith  M.  Thomas;  Maurice  Thompson;  Henry  D.  Tho- 
reau;  John  Townsend  Trowbridge;  Jones  Very;  John 
Greenleaf  Whittier. 

Messrs.  B.  F.  Johnson  Co. :  Collected  Poems  of  Henry  Timrod. 

The  John  Lane  Co.:  "The  Lonely  Dancer"  and  "English 
Poems,"  by  Richard  Le  Gallienne. 

Messrs.  J.  B.  Lippincott  Co.:  Poems  hv  Thomas  Buchanan 
Read  and  George  Henry  Boker. 

Messrs.  Longmans,  Green  &  Co. :  Poems  by  Sarah  M.  B.  Piatt. 

Messrs.  Little,  Brown  &  Co. :  Collected  Poems  of  Helen  Hunt 
Jackson;  Poems,  First,  Second,  and  Third  Series,  by  Emily 
Dickinson;  Collected  Poems  of  Louise  Chandler  Moulton; 
"  The  Wings  of  Icarus,"  by  Susan  Marr  Spalding;  "  In  the 
Harbor  of  Hope,"  by  Mary  Elizabeth  Blake;  "Sonnets 
and  Canzonets,"  by  Amos  Bronson  Alcott;  Poems  by 
William  Ellery  Channing. 

Messrs.  Lothrop,  Lee  &  Shepherd  Co.:  "Dumb  in  June"  and 
"Lyrics  of  Brotherhood,"  by  Richard  Burton;  Poems  by 
Paul  Hamilton  Hayne. 

The  Macmillan  Co.:  Poems  by  Madison  Cawein;  Collected 
Poems  of  George  Edward  Woodberry;  "You  and  I,"  by 
Harriet  Monroe;  "When  the  Birds  Go  North  Again,"  by 
Ella  Higgiuscn. 


ACKNOWLEDGMENTS  xxiii 

John  R.  Murphy,  literary  executor  of  John  Boyle  O'Reilly 
"Selected  Poems  of  John  Boyle  O'Reilly,"  published  b; 
P.  J.  Kenedy  &  Sons. 

Miss  Ella  Malone,  literary  executor  of  Walter  Malone,  for  tltt 
use  of  the  lyric  "Opportunity." 

Messrs.  Moffat,  Yard  &  Co.:  Collected  Poems  of  William 
Winter. 

Messrs.  G.  P.  Putnam's  Sons:  "Summer  Haven  Songs,"  by 
James  Herbert  Morse;  "Mimosa  Leaves,"  by  Grace  Denio 
Litchfield;  "Joy,  and  Other  Poems,"  by  Danske  Dandridge; 
"Each  in  His  Own  Tongue,"  by  Herbert  Carruth;  "When 
the  Great  Gray  Ships  Come  In,"  by  Guy  Wetmore  Carryl. 

Messrs.  Charles  Scribner's  Sons:  "Beyond  the  Sunset,"  by 
Julia  C.  R.  Dorr;  Collected  Poems  of  Sidney  Lanier;  Col- 
lected Poems  of  Eugene  Field;  "Dreams  and  Days,"  by 
George  Parsons  Lathrop;  Poems  by  Henry  van  Dyke; 
Collected  Poems  of  Henry  Cuyler  Bunner;  Poetical  Works 
of  J.  G.  Holland;  Collected  Poems  of  Richard  Henry  Stod- 
dard;  "The  Dead  Nymph,"  by  Charles  Henry  Luders; 
"Songs  About  Life,  Love,  and  Death,"  by  Anne  Reeve 
Aldrich;  "Iter  Supremum,"  by  Arthur  Sherburne  Hardy; 
"Poems  of  Gun  and  Rod,"  by  Ernest  McGaffey. 

Messrs.  Small,  Maynard  &  Co.:  "Songs  From  Vagabondia," 
by  Bliss  Carman  and  Richard  Hovey;  Poems  by  John  B. 
Tabb;  "Ballads  of  Lost  Haven"  and  "Behind  the  Arras," 
by  Bliss  Carman;  First  Poems  by  Philip  Henry  Savage. 

Messrs.  Frederick  A.  Stokes  Co.:  Selections  from  the  work  of 
Samuel  Minturn  Peck  and  of  Walter  Learned. 

Messrs.  Whitaker  &  Ray-Wiggin  Co.:  Complete  Poems  of 
Joaquin  Miller. 

The  selections  from  Walt  Whitman  are  taken,  by  permission 
of  the  publisher,  Mitchell  Kennerley,  from  the  authorized 
edition  of  "Complete  Leaves  of  Grass." 

I  take  this  opportunity  also  of  thanking  Mr.  Thomas 
S.  Jones,  Jr.,  for  generous  and  valuable  aid  in  the 
preparation  of  the  manuscript  of  "  The  Little  Book 
of  American  Poets." 


THE  TEST 

I  hung  my  verses  in  the  wind, 
Time  and  tide  their  faults  may  find. 
All  were  winnowed  through  and  through, 
Five  lines  lasted  sound  and  true; 
Five  were  smelted  in  a  pot 
Than  the  South  more  fierce  and  hot; 
These  the  siroc  could  not  melt, 
Fire  their  fiercer  flaming  felt, 
And  the  meaning  was  more  white 
Than  July's  meridian  light. 
Sunshine  cannot  bleach  the  snow, 
Nor  time  unmake  what  poets  know. 
Have  you  eyes  to  find  the  five 
Which  five  hundred  did  survive? 

HALFII  WALOO  EMEHSON 


SONG  OF  THYRSIS 

THE  turtle  on  yon  withered  bough, 

That  lately  mourned  her  murdered  mate, 

Has  found  another  comrade  now  — 

Such  changes  all  await! 

Again  her  drooping  plume  is  drest, 

Again  she's  willing  to  be  blest 

And  takes  her  lover  to  her  nest. 

If  nature  has  decreed  it  so 
With  all  above,  and  all  below, 
Let  us  like  them  forget  our  woe, 

And  not  be  killed  with  sorrow. 
If  I  should  quit  your  arms  to-night 
And  chance  to  die  before  't  was  light, 
I  would  advise  you  —  and  you  might  — 

Love  again  to-morrow. 

Philip  FreneaUc 

THE  INDIAN  BTJRYING-GROUND 

IN  spite  of  all  the  learned  have  said, 

I  still  my  old  opinion  keep; 
The  posture  that  we  give  the  dead 

Points  out  the  soul's  eternal  sleep. 

Not  so  the  ancients  of  these  lands;  — 
The  Indian,  when  from  life  released, 

Again  is  seated  with  his  friends, 
And  shares  again  the  joyous  feast. 


PHILIP   FRENEAU 


His  imaged  birds,  and  painted  bowl, 
And  venison,  for  a  journey  dressed, 

Bespeak  the  nature  of  the  soul, 
Activity,  that  wants  no  rest. 

His  bow  for  action  ready  bent, 
And  arrows  with  a  head  of  stone, 

Can  only  mean  that  life  is  spent, 
And  not  the  old  ideas  gone. 

Thou,  stranger,  that  shalt  come  this  way, 
No  fraud  upon  the  dead  commit,  — 

Observe  the  swelling  turf,  and  say, 
They  do  not  lie,  but  here  they  sit. 

Here  still  a  lofty  rock  remains, 

On  which  the  curious  eye  may  trace 

(Now  wasted  half  by  wearing  rains) 
The  fancies  of  a  ruder  race. 

Here  still  an  aged  elm  aspires, 

Beneath  whose  far  projecting  shade 

(And  which  the  shepherd  still  admires) 
The  children  of  the  forest  played. 

There  oft  a  restless  Indian  queen 

(Pale  Shebah  with  her  braided  hair), 

And  many  a  barbarous  form  is  seen 
To  chide  the  man  that  lingers  there. 

By  midnight  moons,  o'er  moistening  dewsr 
In  habit  for  the  chase  arrayed, 

The  hunter  still  the  deer  pursues, 
The  hunter  and  the  deer  —  a  shade! 


THE   AMERICAN   FLAG 


And  long  shall  timorous  Fancy  see 
The  painted  chief,  and  pointed  spear, 

And  Reason's  self  shall  bow  the  knee 
To  shadows  and  delusions  here. 

Philip  Freneau. 

THE  AMERICAN  FLAG 

i 
WHEN  Freedom,  from  her  mountain  height, 

Unfurled  her  standard  to  the  air, 
She  tore  the  azure  robe  of  night, 

And  set  the  stars  of  glory  there; 
She  mingled  with  its  gorgeous  dyes 
The  milky  baldric  of  the  skies, 
And  striped  its  pure,  celestial  white 
With  streakings  of  the  morning  light; 
Then,  from  his  mansion  in  the  sun, 
She  called  her  eagle  bearer  down, 
And  gave  into  his  mighty  hand, 
The  symbol  of  her  chosen  land. 


Majestic  monarch  of  the  cloud ! 

Who  rear'st  aloft  thy  regal  form, 
To  hear  the  tempest-trumpings  loud, 
And  see  the  lightning-lances  driven 

WTien  strive  the  warriors  of  the  storm, 
And  rolls  the  thunder-drum  of  heaven  — 
Child  of  the  sun !  to  thee  't  is  given 

To  guard  the  banner  of  the  free, 
To  hover  in  the  sulphur  smoke, 
To  ward  away  the  battle-stroke, 


JOSEPH   RODMAN   DRAKE 

And  bid  its  blendings  shine  afar, 
Like  rainbows  on  the  cloud  of  war, 
The  harbingers  of  victory ! 


Flag  of  the  brave!  thy  folds  shall  fly, 
The  sign  of  hope  and  triumph  high, 
When  speaks  the  signal-trumpet  tone, 
And  the  long  line  comes  gleaming  on: 
Ere  yet  the  life-blood,  warm  and  wet, 
Has  dimmed  the  glistening  bayonet, 
Each  soldier  eye  shall  brightly  turn 
Where  thy  sky-born  glories  burn, 
And,  as  his  springing  steps  advance, 
Catch  war  and  vengeance  from  the  glance; 
And  when  the  cannon-mou  things  loud 
Heave  in  wild  wreaths  the  battle-shroud, 
And  gory  sabres  rise  and  fall, 
Like  shoots  of  flame  on  midnight's  pall; 

Then  shall  thy  meteor-glances  glow, 
And  cowering  foes  shall  shrink  beneath 

Each  gallant  arm  that  strikes  below 
That  lovely  messenger  of  death. 


Flag  of  the  seas!  on  ocean  wave 
Thy  stars  shall  glitter  o'er  the  brave; 
When  death,  careering  on  the  gale, 
Sweeps  darkly  round  the  bellied  sail, 
And  frighted  waves  rush  wildly  back 
Before  the  broadside's  reeling  rack, 
Each  dying  wanderer  of  the  sea 
Shall  look  at  once  to  heaven  and  thee, 


ELEGIAC 


And  smile  to  see  thy  splendors  fly 
In  triumph  o'er  his  closing  eye. 


Flag  of  the  free  heart's  hope  and  home, 

By  angel  hands  to  valor  given; 
Thy  stars  have  lit  the  welkin  dome, 

And  all  thy  hues  were  born  in  heaven. 
Forever  float  that  standard  sheet ! 

Where  breathes  the  foe  but  falls  before  us, 
With  Freedom's  soil  beneath  our  feet, 

And  Freedom's  banner  streaming  o'er  us? 

Joseph  Rodman  Drake. 


ELEGIAC 

G,  IT  is  great  for  our  country  to  die,  where  ranks  are 

contending ! 
Bright  is  the  wreath  of  our  fame;  glory  awaits  us  for 

aye,— 
Glory,  that  never  is  dim,  shining  on  with  light  never 

ending,  — 
Glory  that  never  shall  fade,  never,  O  never,  away! 

O,  it  is  sweet  for  our  country  to  die!   How  softly  re- 
poses 
Warrior  youth  on  his  bier,  wet  by  the  tears  of  his 

love, 
Wet  by  a  mother's  warm  tears.  They  crown  him  with 

garlands  of  roses, 

Weep,  and  then  joyously  turn,  bright  where  he  tri- 
umphs above. 


8  FITZ-GREENE   HALLECK 

Not  to  the  shades  shall  the  youth  descend,  who  for 

country  hath  perished ; 
Hebe  awaits  him  in  heaven,  welcomes  him  there 

with  her  smile; 
There,  at  the  banquet  divine,  the  patriot  spirit  is 

cherished; 

Gods  love  the  young  who  ascend  pure  from  the 
funeral  pile. 

Not  to  Elysian  fields,  by  the  still,  oblivious  river; 

Not  to  the  isles  of  the  blest,  over  the  blue,  rolling  sea; 
But  on  Olympian  heights  shall  dwell  the  devoted  for- 
ever; 

There  shall  assemble  the  good,  there  the  wise,  val- 
iant, and  free. 

O,  then,  how  great  for  our  country  to  die,  in  the  front 

rank  to  perish, 
Firm  with  our  breast  to  the  foe,  victory's  shout  in 

our  ear! 
Long  they  our  statues  shall  crown,  in  songs  our  memory 

cherish; 

We  shall  look  forth  from  our  heaven,  pleased  the 
sweet  music  to  hear. 

James  Gates  Percival. 

ON  THE  DEATH  OF  JOSEPH  RODMAN 
DRAKE 

GREEN  be  the  turf  above  thee, 

Friend  of  my  better  days! 
None  knew  thee  but  to  love  thee, 

Nor  named  thee  but  to  praise. 


MY   CHILD 


Tears  fell,  when  thou  wert  dying, 

From  eyes  unused  to  weep, 
And  long  where  thou  art  lying, 

Will  tears  the  cold  turf  steep. 

When  hearts  whose  truth  was  proven, 

Like  thine,  are  laid  in  earth, 
There  should  a  wreath  be  woven 

To  tell  the  world  their  worth; 

And  I,  who  woke  each  morrow 

To  clasp  thy  hand  in  mine, 
Who  shared  thy  joy  and  sorrow, 

Whose  weal  and  woe  were  thine: 

It  should  be  mine  to  braid  it 

Around  thy  faded  brow, 
But  I  've  in  vain  essayed  it, 

And  feel  I  cannot  now. 

While  memory  bids  me  weep  thee, 
Nor  thoughts  nor  words  are  free, 

The  grief  is  fixed  too  deeply 
That  mourns  a  man  like  thee. 

Fitz-Greene  HaUeck 

MY  CHILD 

1  CANNOT  make  him  dead ! 

His  fair  sunshiny  head 
Is  ever  bounding  round  my  study-chair; 

Yet,  when  my  eyes,  now  dim 

With  tears,  I  turn  to  him, 
The  vision  vanishes  —  he  is  not  there! 


10  JOHN   PIERPONT 

I  walk  my  parlor  floor, 

And  through  the  open  door 
I  hear  a  footfall  on  the  chamber  stair; 

I'm  stepping  toward  the  hall 

To  give  the  boy  a  call; 
And  then  bethink  me  that  —  he  is  not  there! 

I  thread  the  crowded  street; 

A  satchelled  lad  I  meet, 
With  the  same  beaming  eyes  and  colored  hair: 

And,  as  he's  running  by, 

Follow  him  with  my  eye, 
Scarcely  believing  that  —  he  is  not  there! 

I  know  his  face  is  hid 

Under  the  coffin-lid; 
Closed  are  his  eyes;  cold  is  his  forehead  fair; 

My  hand  that  marble  felt; 

O'er  it  in  prayer  I  knelt; 
Yet  my  heart  whispers  that  —  he  is  not  there! 

I  cannot  make  him  dead ! 

When  passing  by  the  bed, 
So  long  watched  over  with  parental  care, 

My  spirit  and  my  eye 

Seek  it  inquiringly, 
Before  the  thought  comes  that  —  he  is  not  there! 

When,  at  the  cool,  gray  break 

Of  day,  from  sleep  I  wake, 
With  my  first  breathing  of  the  morning  air 

My  soul  goes  up,  with  joy, 

To  Him  who  gave  my  boy, 
Then  comes  the  sad  thought  that — he  is  not  there! 


MY   CHILD  11 


When  at  the  day's  calm  close, 

Before  we  seek  repose, 
I  *m  with  his  mother,  offering  up  our  prayer, 

Whate'er  I  may  be  saying, 

I  am,  in  spirit,  praying 
For  our  boy's  spirit,  though  —  he  is  not  there  I 

Not  there!    Where,  then,  is  he? 

The  form  I  used  to  see 
Was  but  the  raiment  that  he  used  tc  wear' 

The  grave  that  now  doth  press 

Upon  that  cast-off  dress, 
Is  but  his  wardrobe  locked;  —  he  is  not  there! 

He  lives!  In  all  the  past 

He  lives;  nor,  to  the  last, 
Of  seeing  him  again  will  I  despair; 

In  dreams  I  see  him  now; 

And,  on  his  angel  brow, 
I  see  it  written,  "Thou  shalt  see  me  there T* 

Yes,  we  all  live  to  God! 

Father,  thy  chastening  rod 
So  help  us,  thine  afflicted  ones,  to  bear, 

That,  in  the  spirit-land, 

Meeting  at  thy  right  hand, 
'Twill  be  our  heaven  to  find  —  that  he  is  there! 

John  Pierpont 


12  RICHARD   HENRY  DANA 

THE   LITTLE   BEACH-BIRD 

THOU  little  bird,  thou  dweller  by  the  sea, 
Why  takest  thou  its  melancholy  voice, 
And  with  that  boding  cry 
Why  o'er  the  waves  dost  fly? 
O,  rather,  bird,  with  me 

Through  the  fair  land  rejoice! 

Thy  flitting  form  comes  ghostly  dim  and  pale, 
As  driven  by  a  beating  storm  at  sea; 
Thy  cry  is  weak  and  scared, 
As  if  thy  mates  had  shared 
The  doom  of  us.  Thy  wail,  — 
What  doth  it  bring  to  me? 

Thou  call  'st  along  the  sand,  and  haunt 'st  the  surge 
Restless  and  sad;  as  if,  in  strange  accord 
With  the  motion  and  the  roar 
Of  waves  that  drive  to  shore, 
One  spirit  did  ye  urge  — 
The  Mystery  —  the  Word. 

Of  thousands,  thou,  both  sepulcher  and  pall, 
Old  Ocean!  A  requiem  o'er  the  dead, 
From  out  thy  gloomy  cells, 
A  tale  of  mourning  tells,  — 
Tells  of  man's  woe  and  fall, 
His  sinless  glory  fled. 

Then  turn  thee,  little  bird,  and  take  thy  flight 
Where  the  complaining  sea  shall  sadness  bring 


TO   A   WATERFOWL  IS 

Thy  spirit  nevermore. 
Come,  quit  with  me  the  shore, 
For  gladness  and  the  light, 
Where  birds  of  summer  sing. 

Richard  Henry  Dana. 


TO  A  WATERFOWL 

WHITHER,  midst  falling  dew, 

While  glow  the  heavens  with  the  last  steps  of  day, 
Far,  through  their  rosy  depths,  dost  thou  pursue 

Thy  solitary  way? 

Vainly  the  fowler's  eye 

Might  mark  thy  distant  flight  to  do  thee  wrong/ 
As,  darkly  painted  on  the  crimson  sky, 

Thy  figure  floats  along. 

Seek  'st  thou  the  plashy  brink 
Of  weedy  lake,  or  marge  of  river  wide, 
Or  where  the  rocking  billows  rise  and  sink 

On  the  chafed  ocean-side? 

There  is  a  Power  whose  care 
Teaches  thy  way  along  that  pathless  coast,  — 
The  desert  and  illimitable  air,  — 

Lone  wandering,  but  not  lost. 

All  day  thy  wings  have  fanned 
At  that  far  height,  the  cold,  thin  atmosphere, 
Yet  stoop  not,  weary,  to  the  welcome  land, 

Though  the  dark  night  is  near. 


14         WILLIAM  CULLEN   BRYANT 

And  soon  that  toil  shall  end; 
Soon  shalt  thou  find  a  summer  home,  and  rest, 
And  scream  among  thy  fellows;  reeds  shall  bend 

Soon,  o'er  thy  sheltered  nest. 

Thou  'rt  gone,  the  abyss  of  heaven 
Hath  swallowed  up  thy  form;  yet,  on  my  heart 
Deeply  hath  sunk  the  lesson  thou  hast  given, 

And  shall  not  soon  depart. 

He  who,  from  zone  to  zone, 

Guides  through  the  boundless  sky  thy  certain  flight, 
In  the  long  way  that  I  must  tread  alone, 

Will  lead  my  steps  aright. 

William  Cullen  Bryant. 


THANATOPSIS 

To  him  who  in  the  love  of  nature  holds 

Communion  with  her  visible  forms,  she  speaks 

A  various  language;  for  his  gayer  hours 

She  has  a  voice  of  gladness,  and  a  smile 

And  eloquence  of  beauty,  and  she  glides 

Into  his  darker  musings,  with  a  mild 

And  healing  sympathy,  that  steals  away 

Their  sharpness,  ere  he  is  aware.   When  thoughts 

Of  the  last  bitter  hour  come  like  a  blight 

Over  thy  spirit,  and  sad  images 

Of  the  stern  agony,  and  shroud,  and  pall, 

And  breathless  darkness,  and  the  narrow  house, 

Make  thee  to  shudder  and  grow  sick  at  heart;  — • 

Go  forth,  under  the  open  sky,  and  list 


THANATOPSIS  15 

To  Nature's  teachings,  while  from  all  around  — 
Earth  and  her  waters,  and  the  depths  of  air  — 
Comes  a  still  voice:  — 

Yet  a  few  days,  and  thee 
The  all-beholding  sun  shall  see  no  more 
In  all  his  course;  nor  yet  in  the  cold  ground, 
Where  thy  pale  form  was  laid,  with  many  tears, 
Nor  in  the  embrace  of  ocean,  shall  exist 
Thy  image.  Earth,  that  nourished  thee,  shall  claim 
Thy  growth,  to  be  resolved  to  earth  again, 
And,  lost  each  human  trace,  surrendering  up 
Thine  individual  being,  shalt  thou  go 
To  mix  forever  with  the  elements, 
To  be  a  brother  to  the  insensible  rock 
And  to  the  sluggish  clod,  which  the  rude  swain 
Turns  with  his  share,  and  treads  upon.  The  oak 
Shall  send  his  roots  abroad  and  pierce  thy  mold. 

Yet  not  to  thine  eternal  resting-place 

Shalt  thou  retire  alone,  nor  couldst  thou  wish 

Couch  more  magnificent.  Thou  shalt  lie  down 

With  patriarchs  of  the  infant  world  —  with  kings, 

The  powerful  of  the  earth  —  the  wise,  the  good, 

Fair  forms,  and  hoary  seers  of  ages  past, 

All  in  one  mighty  sepulcher.  The  hills, 

Rock-ribbed  and  ancient  as  the  sun,  —  the  vales 

Stretching  in  pensive  quietness  between; 

The  venerable  woods  —  rivers  that  move 

In  majesty,  and  the  complaining  brooks 

That  make  the  meadows  green;  and,  poured  round  all, 

Old  Ocean's  gray  and  melancholy  waste,  — 

Are  but  the  solemn  decorations  all 


16        WILLIAM   CULLEN   BRYANT 

Of  the  great  tomb  of  man.  The  golden  sun, 
The  planets,  all  the  infinite  host  of  heaven, 
Are  shining  on  the  sad  abodes  of  death 
Through  the  still  lapse  of  ages.  All  that  tread 
The  globe  are  but  a  handful  to  the  tribes 
That  slumber  in  its  bosom.  —  Take  the  wings 
Of  morning,  pierce  the  Barcan  wilderness, 
Or  lose  thyself  in  the  continuous  woods 
Where  rolls  the  Oregon,  and  hears  no  sound 
Save  his  own  dashings  —  yet  the  dead  are  there: 
And  millions  in  those  solitudes,  since  first 
The  flight  of  years  began,  have  laid  them  down 
In  their  last  sleep  —  the  dead  reign  there  alone. 
So  shalt  thou  rest,  and  what  if  thou  withdraw 
In  silence  from  the  living,  and  no  friend 
Take  note  of  thy  departure?  All  that  breathe 
Will  share  thy  destiny.  The  gay  will  laugh 
When  thou  art  gone,  the  solemn  brood  of  care 
Plod  on,  and  each  one  as  before  will  chase 
His  favorite  phantom;  yet  all  these  shall  leave 
Their  mirth  and  their  employments,  and  shall  come 
And  make  their  bed  with  thee.  As  the  long  train 
Of  ages  glides  away,  the  sons  of  men  — 
The  youth  in  life 's  fresh  spring,  and  he  who  goes 
In  the  full  strength  of  years,  matron  and  maid, 
The  speechless  babe,  and  the  gray-headed  man  — 
Shall  one  by  one  be  gathered  to  thy  side, 
By  those  who  in  their  turn  shall  follow  them. 

So  live,  that  when  thy  summons  comes  to  join 
The  innumerable  caravan,  which  moves 
To  that  mysterious  realm,  where  each  shall  take 
His  chamber  in  the  silent  halls  of  death, 


THE   DEATH   OF   THE   FLOWERS    17 

Thou  go  not,  like  the  quarry-slave  at  night, 
Scourged  to  his  dungeon,  but,  sustained  and  soothed 
By  an  unfaltering  trust,  approach  thy  grave 
Like  one  who  wraps  the  drapery  of  his  couch 
About  him,  and  lies  down  to  pleasant  dreams. 

William  CuUen  Bryant. 

THE  DEATH  OP  THE  FLOWERS 

THE  melancholy  days  are  come,  the  saddest  of  the  year, 
Of  wailing  winds,  and  naked  woods,  and  meadows 

brown  and  sere. 
Heaped  in  the  hollows  of  the  grove,  the  autumn  leaves 

lie  dead; 
They  rustle  to  the  eddying  gust,  and  to  the  rabbit's 

tread; 
The  robin  and  the  wren  are  flown,  and  from  the  shrubs 

the  jay, 
And  from  the  wood-top  calls  the  crow  through  all  the 

gloomy  day. 

Where  are  the  flowers,  the  fair  young  flowers,  that 
lately  sprang  and  stood 

In  brighter  light  and  softer  airs,  a  beauteous  sister- 
hood? 

Alas!  they  all  are  in  their  graves,  the  gentle  race  of 
flowers 

Are  lying  in  their  lowly  beds,  with  the  fair  and  good  of 
ours. 

The  rain  is  falling  where  they  lie,  but  the  cold  No- 
vember rain 

Calls  not  from  out  the  gloomy  earth  the  lovely  ones 
again. 


18         WILLIAM   CULLEN   BRYANT 

The  windflower  and  the  violet,  they  perished  long 
ago, 

And  the  brier-rose  and  the  orchis  died  amid  the  sum- 
mer glow; 

But  on  the  hill  the  goldenrod,  and  the  aster  in  the 
wood, 

And  the  yellow  sunflower  by  the  brook,  in  autumn 
beauty  stood, 

Till  fell  the  frost  from  the  clear  cold  heaven,  as  falls 
the  plague  on  men, 

And  the  brightness  of  their  smile  was  gone,  from  up- 
land, glade,  and  glen. 

And  now,  when  comes  the  calm,  mild  day,  as  still  such 
days  will  come, 

To  call  the  squirrel  and  the  bee  from  out  their  winter 
home; 

When  the  sound  of  dropping  nuts  is  heard,  though  all 
the  trees  are  still, 

And  twinkle  in  the  smoky  light  the  waters  of  the  rill, 

The  south  wind  searches  for  the  flowers,  whose  fra- 
grance late  he  bore, 

And  sighs  to  find  them  in  the  wood  and  by  the  stream 
no  more. 

And  then  I  think  of  one  who  in  her  youthful  beauty 

died, 
The  fair  meek  blossom  that  grew  up  and  faded  by  my 

side. 
In  the  cold  moist  earth  we  laid  her,  when  the  forest 

cast  the  leaf, 
And  we  wept  that  one  so  lovely  should  have  a  life  so 

brief: 


A   HEALTH 


Yet  not  unmeet  was  it  that  one  like  that  young  friend 

of  ours, 
So  gentle  and  so  beautiful,  should  perish  with  the 

flowers. 

William  Cullen  Bryant. 


A  HEALTH 

I  FILL  this  cup  to  one  made  up 

Of  loveliness  alone, 
A  woman,  of  her  gentle  sex 

The  seeming  paragon; 
To  whom  the  better  elements 

And  kindly  stars  have  given 
A  form  so  fair,  that,  like  the  air, 

'T  is  less  of  earth  than  heaven. 

Her  every  tone  is  music's  own, 

Like  those  of  morning  birds, 
And  something  more  than  melody. 

Dwells  ever  in  her  words; 
The  coinage  of  her  heart  are  they, 

And  from  her  lips  each  flows 
As  one  may  see  the  burdened  bee 

Forth  issue  from  the  rose. 

Affections  are  as  thoughts  to  her, 
The  measures  of  her  hours; 

Her  feelings  have  the  fragrancy, 
The  freshness  of  young  flowers; 

And  lovely  passions,  changing  oft, 
So  fill  her,  she  appears 


EDWARD   COATE   PINKNEY 

The  image  of  themselves  by  turns,  — 
The  idol  of  past  years ! 

Of  her  bright  face  one  glance  will  trace 

A  picture  on  the  brain, 
And  of  her  voice  in  echoing  hearts 

A  sound  must  long  remain; 
But  memory,  such  as  mine  of  her, 

So  very  much  endears, 
When  death  is  nigh  my  latest  sigh 

Will  not  be  life's,  but  hers. 

I  fill  this  cup  to  one  made  up 

Of  loveliness  alone, 
A  woman,  of  her  gentle  sex 

The  seeming  paragon  — 
Her  health!  and  would  on  earth  there  stood 

Some  more  of  such  a  frame, 
That  life  might  be  all  poetry, 

And  weariness  a  name. 

Edward  Coate  Pinkney. 


SONG 

WE  break  the  glass,  whose  sacred  wine 

To  some  beloved  health  we  drain, 
Lest  future  pledges,  less  divine, 

Should  e'er  the  hallowed  toy  profane; 
And  thus  I  broke  a  heart  that  poured 

Its  tide  of  feelings  out  for  thee, 
In  draughts,  by  after-times  deplored, 

Yet  dear  to  memory. 


BACCHUS  21 


But  still  the  old,  impassioned  ways 

And  habits  of  my  mind  remain, 
And  still  unhappy  light  displays 

Thine  image  chambered  in  my  brain, 
And  still  it  looks  as  when  the  hours 

Went  by  like  flights  of  singing  birds, 
Or  that  soft  chain  of  spoken  flowers 

And  airy  gems,  —  thy  words. 

Edward  Coate  Pinkney. 


DAYS 

DAUGHTERS  of  Time,  the  hypocritic  Days, 

Muffled  and  dumb  like  barefoot  dervishes, 

And  marching  single  in  an  endless  file, 

Bring  diadems  and  fagots  in  their  hands. 

To  each  they  offer  gifts  after  his  will, 

Bread,  kingdoms,  stars,  and  sky  that  holds  them  alL 

I,  in  my  pleached  garden,  watched  the  pomp, 

Forgot  my  morning  wishes,  hastily 

Took  a  few  herbs  and  apples,  and  the  Day 

Turned  and  departed  silent.  I,  too  late, 

Under  her  solemn  fillet  saw  the  scorn. 

Ralph  Waldo  Emerson. 


BACCHUS 

BRING  me  wine,  but  wine  which  never  grew 

In  the  belly  of  the  grape, 

Or  grew  on  vine  whose  tap-roots,  reaching  througl 

Under  the  Andes  to  the  Cape, 

Suffered  no  savor  of  the  earth  to  'scape. 


RALPH   WALDO   EMERSON 

Let  its  grapes  the  morn  salute 

From  a  nocturnal  root, 

Which  feels  the  acrid  juice 

Of  Styx  and  Erebus; 

And  turns  the  woe  of  Night, 

By  its  own  craft,  to  a  more  rich  delight. 

We  buy  ashes  for  bread; 

We  buy  diluted  wine; 

Give  me  of  the  true,  — 

Whose  ample  leaves  and  tendrils  curled 

Among  the  silver  hills  of  heaven 

Draw  everlasting  dew; 

Wine  of  wine, 

Blood  of  the  world, 

Form  of  forms,  and  mold  of  statures, 

That  I  intoxicated, 

And  by  the  draught  assimilated, 

May  float  at  pleasure  through  all  natures; 

The  bird-language  rightly  spell, 

And  that  which  roses  say  so  well. 

Wine  that  is  shed 

Like  the  torrents  of  the  sun, 

Up  the  horizon  walls, 

Or  like  the  Atlantic  streams,  which  run 

When  the  South  Sea  calls. 

Water  and  bread, 
Food  which  needs  no  transmuting, 
Rainbow-flowering,  wisdom-fruiting, 
Wine  which  is  already  man, 
Food  which  teach  and  reason  can. 


BACCHUS  28 


Wine  which  Music  is,  — 

Music  and  wine  are  one,  — 

That  I,  drinking  this, 

Shall  hear  far  Chaos  talk  with  me; 

Kings  unborn  shall  walk  with  me, 

And  the  poor  grass  shall  plot  and  plan 

What  it  will  do  when  it  is  man. 

Quickened  so,  will  I  unlock 

Every  crypt  of  every  rock. 

I  thank  the  joyful  juice 

For  all  I  know;  — 

Winds  of  remembering 

Of  the  ancient  being  blow, 

And  seeming-solid  walls  of  use 

Open  and  flow. 

Pour,  Bacchus!  the  remembering  wine; 

Retrieve  the  loss  of  me  and  mine! 

Vine  for  vine  be  antidote, 

And  the  grape  requite  the  lote! 

Haste  to  cure  the  old  despair;  — 

Reason  in  Nature's  lotus  drenched, 

The  memory  of  ages  quenched; 

Give  them  again  to  shine; 

Let  wine  repair  what  this  undid; 

And  where  the  infection  slid, 

A  dazzling  memory  revive; 

Refresh  the  faded  tints, 

Recut  the  aged  prints, 

And  write  my  old  adventures  with  the  pen 

Which  on  the  first  day  drew, 

Upon  the  tablets  blue, 

The  dancing  Pleiads  and  eternal  men. 

Ralph  Waldo  Emerson. 


«4  RALPH   WALDO   EMERSON 


THE  PROBLEM 

I  LIKE  a  church;  I  like  a  cowl; 

I  love  a  prophet  of  the  soul; 

And  on  my  heart  monastic  aisles 

Fall  like  sweet  strains  or  pensive  smiles: 

Yet  not  for  all  his  faith  can  see 

Would  I  that  cowled  churchman  be. 

Why  should  the  vest  on  him  allure, 

Which  I  could  not  on  me  endure? 

Not  from  a  vain  or  shallow  thought 

His  awful  Jove  young  Phidias  brought; 

Never  from  lips  of  cunning  fell 

The  thrilling  Delphic  oracle; 

Out  from  the  heart  of  nature  rolled 

The  burdens  of  the  Bible  old; 

The  litanies  of  nations  came, 

Like  the  volcano's  tongue  of  flame, 

Up  from  the  burning  core  below,  — 

The  canticles  of  love  and  woe: 

The  hand  that  rounded  Peter's  dome, 

And  groined  the  aisles  of  Christian  Rome, 

Wrought  in  a  sad  sincerity; 

Himself  from  God  he  could  not  free; 

He  builded  better  than  he  knew;  — 

The  conscious  stone  to  beauty  grew. 

Know'st  thou  what  wove  yon  woodbird's  nest 
Of  leaves,  and  feathers  from  her  breast? 
Or  how  the  fish  outbuilt  her  shell, 
Painting  with  morn  each  annual  cell? 


THE   PROBLEM  25 

Or  how  the  sacred  pine-tree  adds 
To  her  old  leaves  new  myriads? 
Such  and  so  grew  these  holy  piles, 
Whilst  love  and  terror  laid  the  tiles. 
Earth  proudly  wears  the  Parthenon, 
As  the  best  gem  upon  her  zone, 
And  Morning  opes  with  haste  her  lids 
To  gaze  upon  the  Pyramids; 
O'er  England's  abbeys  bends  the  sky, 
As  on  its  friends,  with  kindred  eye; 
For,  out  of  Thought's  interior  sphere, 
These  wonders  rose  to  upper  air; 
And  Nature  gladly  gave  them  placet 
Adopted  them  into  her  race, 
And  granted  them  an  equal  date 
With  Andes  and  with  Ararat. 

These  temples  grew  as  grows  the  grass; 

Art  might  obey,  but  not  surpass. 

The  passive  Master  lent  his  hand 

To  the  vast  soul  that  o'er  him  planned; 

And  the  same  power  that  reared  the  shrine 

Bestrode  the  tribes  that  knelt  within. 

Ever  the  fiery  Pentecost 

Girds  with  one  flame  the  countless  host, 

Trances  the  heart  through  chanting  choirs, 

And  through  the  priest  the  mind  inspires. 

The  word  unto  the  prophet  spoken 

Was  writ  on  tables  yet  unbroken; 

The  word  by  seers  or  sibyls  told, 

In  groves  of  oak,  or  fanes  of  gold, 

Still  floats  upon  the  morning  wind, 

Still  whispers  to  the  willing  mind. 


£6  RALPH   WALDO   EMERSON 

One  accent  of  the  Holy  Ghost 
The  heedless  world  hath  never  lost. 
I  know  what  say  the  fathers  wise,  — 
The  Book  itself  before  me  lies,  — 
Old  Chrysostom,  best  Augustine, 
And  he  who  blent  both  in  his  line, 
The  younger  Golden  Lips  or  mines, 
Taylor,  the  Shakespeare  of  divines. 
His  words  are  music  in  my  ear, 
I  see  his  cowled  portrait  dear; 
And  yet,  for  all  his  faith  could  see, 
I  would  not  the  good  bishop  be. 

Ralph  Waldo  Emerson. 


BRAHMA 

IF  the  red  slayer  think  he  slays, 
Or  if  the  slain  think  he  is  slain, 

They  know  not  well  the  subtle  ways 
I  keep,  and  pass,  and  turn  again. 

Far  or  forgot  to  me  is  near; 

Shadow  and  sunlight  are  the  same; 
The  vanished  gods  to  me  appear; 

And  one  to  me  are  shame  and  fame. 

They  reckon  ill  who  leave  me  out; 

When  me  they  fly,  I  am  the  wings; 
I  am  the  doubter  and  the  doubt, 

And  I  the  hymn  the  Brahmin  sings. 


TERMINUS  27 

The  strong  gods  pine  for  my  abode, 
And  pine  in  vain  the  sacred  Seven; 

But  thou,  meek  lover  of  the  good ! 

Find  me,  and  turn  thy  back  on  heaven. 

Ralph  Waldo  Emerson. 


TERMINUS 

IT  is  time  to  be  old, 

To  take  in  sail :  — 

The  god  of  bounds, 

Who  sets  to  seas  a  shore, 

Came  to  me  in  his  fatal  rounds, 

And  said:  "No  more! 

No  farther  shoot 

Thy  broad  ambitious  branches,  and  thy  root. 

Fancy  departs:  no  more  invent; 

Contract  thy  firmament 

To  compass  of  a  tent. 

There's  not  enough  for  this  and  that, 

Make  thy  option  which  of  two; 

Economize  the  failing  river, 

Not  the  less  revere  the  Giver, 

Leave  the  many  and  hold  the  few. 

Timely  wise  accept  the  terms, 

Soften  the  fall  with  wary  foot; 

A  little  while 

Still  plan  and  smile, 

And,  —  fault  of  novel  germs,  — 

Mature  the  unfallen  fruit. 

Curse,  if  thou  wilt,  thy  sires, 

Bad  husbands  of  their  fires, 


38        CHARLES   FENNO   HOFFMAN 

Who,  when  they  gave  thee  breath, 
Failed  to  bequeath 
The  needful  sinew  stark  as  once, 
The  Baresark  marrow  to  thy  bones, 
But  left  a  legacy  of  ebbing  veins, 
Inconstant  heat  and  nerveless  reins,  — 
Amid  the  Muses,  left  thee  deaf  and  dumb, 
Amid  the  Gladiators,  halt  and  numb." 

As  the  bird  trims  her  to  the  gale, 

I  trim  myself  to  the  storm  of  time, 

I  man  the  rudder,  reef  the  sail, 

Obey  the  voice  at  eve  obeyed  at  prime: 

"Lowly  faithful,  banish  fear, 

Right  onward  drive  unharmed; 

The  port,  well  worth  the  cruise,  is  near, 

And  every  wave  is  charmed." 

Ralph  Waldo  Emerson. 


MONTEREY 

WE  were  not  many  —  we  who  stood 

Before  the  iron  sleet  that  day  — 
Yet  many  a  gallant  spirit  would 
Give  half  his  years  if  he  then  could 
Have  been  with  us  at  Monterey. 

Now  here,  now  there,  the  shot,  it  hailed 

In  deadly  drifts  of  fiery  spray, 
Yet  not  a  single  soldier  quailed 
When  wounded  comrades  round  them  wailed 

Their  dying  shout  at  Monterey. 


DIVINA   COMMEDIA  29 

And  on  —  still  on  our  column  kept 

Through  walls  of  flame  its  withering  way; 
Where  fell  the  dead,  the  living  stept, 
Still  charging  on  the  guns  which  swept 
The  slippery  streets  of  Monterey. 

The  foe  himself  recoiled  aghast, 

When,  striking  where  he  strongest  lay, 
We  swooped  his  flanking  batteries  past, 
And  braving  full  their  murderous  blast, 
Stormed  home  the  towers  of  Monterey. 

Our  banners  on  those  turrets  wave, 

And  there  our  evening  bugles  play; 
Where  orange  boughs  above  their  grave 
Keep  green  the  memory  of  the  brave 
Who  fought  and  fell  at  Monterey. 

We  are  not  many  —  we  who  pressed 

Beside  the  brave  who  fell  that  day; 
But  who  of  us  has  not  confessed 
He'd  rather  share  their  warrior  rest, 
Than  not  have  been  at  Monterey? 

Charles  Fenno  Hoffman, 

DIVINA  COMMEDIA 

OFT  have  I  seen  at  some  cathedral  door 
A  laborer  pausing  in  the  dust  and  heat, 
Lay  down  his  burden,  and  with  reverent  feet 

Enter  and  cross  himself,  and  on  the  floor 

Kneel  to  repeat  his  paternoster  o'er; 
Far  off  the  noises  of  the  world  retreat; 
The  loud  vociferations  of  the  street 

Become  an  indistinguishable  roar. 


50  LONGFELLOW 

So,  as  I  enter  here  from  day  to  day, 

And  leave  my  burden  at  this  minster  gate, 

Kneeling  in  prayer,  and  not  ashamed  to  pray, 
The  tumult  of  the  time  disconsolate 

To  inarticulate  murmurs  dies  away, 
While  the  eternal  ages  watch  and  wait. 

Henry  Wadsworih  Longfellow 

GIOTTO'S  TOWER 

How  many  lives,  made  beautiful  and  sweet 
By  self-devotion  and  by  self-restraint, 
Whose  pleasure  is  to  run  without  complaint 

On  unknown  errands  of  the  Paraclete, 

Wanting  the  reverence  of  unshodden  feet, 
Fail  of  the  nimbus  which  the  artists  paint 
Around  the  shining  forehead  of  the  saint, 

And  are  in  their  completeness  incomplete ! 

In  the  old  Tuscan  town  stands  Giotto's  tower, 
The  lily  of  Florence  blossoming  in  stone, 

A  vision,  a  delight,  and  a  desire,  — 
The  builder's  perfect  and  centennial  flower, 
That  in  the  night  of  ages  bloomed  alone, 
But  wanting  still  the  glory  of  the  spire. 

Henry  Wadsworth  Longfellow 

MY  LOST  YOUTH 

OFTEN  I  think  of  the  beautiful  town 

That  is  seated  by  the  sea; 
Often  in  thought  go  up  and  down 
The  pleasant  streets  of  that  dear  old  town, 

And  my  youth  comes  back  to  me*. 


MY  LOST  YOUTH  SI 

And  a  verse  of  a  Lapland  song 
Is  haunting  my  memory  still: 
"A  boy's  will  is  the  wind's  will, 
And  the  thoughts  of  youth  are  long,  long  thoughts." 

I  can  see  the  shadowy  lines  of  its  trees. 

And  catch,  in  sudden  gleams, 
The  sheen  of  the  far-surrounding  seas, 
And  islands  that  were  the  Hesperides 
Of  all  iny  boyish  dreams. 

And  the  burden  of  that  old  song, 
It  murmurs  and  whispers  still : 
"A  boy's  will  is  the  wind's  will, 
And  the  thoughts  of  youth  are  long,  long  thoughts," 

I  remember  the  black  wharves  and  the  slips, 

And  the  sea- tides  tossing  free; 
.\nd  Spanish  sailors  with  bearded  lips, 
And  the  beauty  and  mystery  of  the  ships, 
And  the  magic  of  the  sea. 

And  the  voice  of  that  wayward  song 
Is  singing  and  saying  still: 
"A  boy's  will  is  the  wind's  will, 
And  the  thoughts  of  youth  are  long,  long  thoughts.* 

I  remember  the  bulwarks  by  the  shore, 

&.nd  the  fort  upon  the  hill; 
The  sunrise  gun,  with  its  hollow  roar, 
The  drum-beat  repeated  o'er  and  o'er, 
And  the  bugle  wild  and  shrill. 
And  the  music  of  that  old  song 
Throbs  in  my  memory  still: 


82  LONGFELLOW 


"A  boy's  will  is  the  wind's  will, 
And  the  thoughts  of  youth  are  long,  long  thoughts," 

I  remember  the  sea-fight  far  away, 
How  it  thundered  o'er  the  tide! 
And  the  dead  captains  as  they  lay 
In  their  graves  o'erlooking  the  tranquil  bay 
Where  they  in  battle  died. 

And  the  sound  of  that  mournful  song 
Goes  through  me  with  a  thrill : 
"A  boy's  will  is  the  wind's  will, 
And  the  thoughts  of  youth  are  long,  long  thoughts." 

1  can  see  the  breezy  dome  of  groves, 
The  shadows  of  Deering's  Woods; 
And  the  friendships  old  and  the  early  loves 
Come  back  with  a  Sabbath  sound,  as  of  doves 
In  quiet  neighborhoods. 

And  the  verse  of  that  sweet  old  song, 
It  flutters  and  murmurs  still: 
**A  boy's  will  is  the  wind's  will, 
And  the  thoughts  of  youth  are  long,  long  thoughts." 

I  remember  the  gleams  and  glooms  that  dart 

Across  the  school-boy's  brain; 
The  song  and  the  silence  in  the  heart, 
That  in  part  are  prophecies,  and  in  part 
Are  longings  wild  and  vain. 

And  the  voice  of  that  fitful  song 
Sings  on,  and  is  never  still: 
"A  boy's  will  is  the  wind's  will, 
And  the  thoughts  of  youth  are  long,  long  thoughts." 


MY   LOST  YOUTH  33 

There  are  things  of  which  I  may  not  speak; 

There  are  dreams  that  cannot  die; 
There  are  thoughts  that  make  the  strong  heart  weak. 
And  bring  a  pallor  into  the  cheek, 
And  a  mist  before  the  eye. 

And  the  words  of  that  fatal  song 
Come  over  me  like  a  chill: 
"A  boy's  will  is  the  wind's  will, 
And  the  thoughts  of  youth  are  long,  long  thoughts.*' 

Strange  to  me  now  are  the  forms  I  meet 

When  I  visit  the  dear  old  town; 
But  the  native  air  is  pure  and  sweet, 
And  the  trees  that  o'ershadow  each  well  known  street, 
As  they  balance  up  and  down, 
Are  singing  the  beautiful  song, 
Are  sighing  and  whispering  still: 
"A  boy's  will  is  the  wind's  will, 
And  the  thoughts  of  youth  are  long,  long  thoughts.'* 

And  Deering's  Woods  are  fresh  and  fair, 

And  with  joy  that  is  almost  pain 
My  heart  goes  back  to  wander  there, 
And  among  the  dreams  of  the  days  that  were, 
I  find  my  lost  youth  again. 

And  the  strange  and  beautiful  song, 
The  groves  are  repeating  it  still : 
"A  boy's  will  is  the  wind's  will, 
And  the  thoughts  of  youth  are  long,  long  thoughts.'r 
Henry  Wadsworth  Longfellow. 


34  LONGFELLOW 


THE   FIRE   OF  DRIFTWOOD 

WE  sat  within  the  farmhouse  old, 

Whose  windows,  looking  o'er  the  bay, 

Gave  to  the  sea-breeze,  damp  and  cold, 
An  easy  entrance,  night  and  day. 

Not  far  away  we  saw  the  port, 

The  strange,  old-fashioned,  silent  town, 

The  lighthouse,  the  dismantled  fort, 
The  wooden  houses  quaint  and  brown. 

We  sat  and  talked  until  the  night, 
Descending,  filled  the  little  room; 

Our  faces  faded  from  the  sight, 
Our  voices  only  broke  the  gloom. 

We  spake  of  many  a  vanished  scene, 
Of  what  we  once  had  thought  and  said, 

Of  what  had  been,  and  might  have  been, 
And  who  was  changed  and  who  was  dead; 

And  all  that  fills  the  hearts  of  friends, 
When  first  they  feel,  with  secret  pain, 

Their  lives  thenceforth  have  separate  ends 
And  never  can  be  one  again; 

The  first  slight  swerving  of  the  heart, 
That  words  are  powerless  to  express, 

And  leave  it  still  unsaid  in  part, 
«Jr  say  it  in  too  great  excess. 


THE   FIRE   OF   DRIFTWOOD         35 

The  very  tones  in  which  we  spake 
Had  something  strange,  I  could  but  mark; 

The  leaves  of  memory  seemed  to  make 
A  mournful  rustling  in  the  dark. 

Oft  died  the  words  upon  our  lips, 

As  suddenly,  from  out  the  fire 
Built  of  the  wreck  of  stranded  ships, 

The  flames  would  leap  and  then  expire. 

And  as  their  splendor  flashed  and  failed, 
We  thought  of  wrecks  upon  the  main, 

Of  ships  dismasted  that  were  hailed 
And  sent  no  answer  back  again. 

The  windows  rattling  in  their  frames9 

The  ocean  roaring  up  the  beach, 
The  gusty  blast,  the  bickering  flames, 

All  mingled  vaguely  in  our  speech; 

Until  they  made  themselves  a  part 
Of  fancies  floating  through  the  brain, 

The  long-lost  ventures  of  the  heart, 
That  send  no  answers  back  again. 

O  flames  that  glowed!  O  hearts  that  yearned! 

They  were  indeed  too  much  akin, 
The  driftwood  fire  without  that  burned, 

The  thoughts  that  burned  and  glowed  within. 
Henry  Wadsworth  Longfellow, 


NATHANIEL  PARKER   WILLIS 


UNSEEN  SPIRITS 

THE  shadows  lay  along  Broadway, 
•    'T  was  near  the  twilight-tide, 
And  slowly  there  a  lady  fair 

Was  walking  in  her  pride. 
Alone  walked  she;  but,  viewlessly, 

Walked  spirits  at  her  side. 

Peace  charmed  the  street  beneath  her  feet, 

And  Honor  charmed  the  air; 
And  all  astir  looked  kind  on  her, 

And  called  her  good  as  fair, 
For  all  God  ever  gave  to  her 

She  kept  with  chary  care. 

She  kept  with  care  her  beauties  rare 

From  lovers  warm  and  true, 
For  her  heart  was  cold  to  all  but  gold, 

And  the  rich  came  not  to  woo  — 
But  honored  well  are  charms  to  sell 

If  priests  the  selling  do. 

Now  walking  there  was  one  more  fair  — 

A  slight  girl,  lily-pale; 
And  she  had  unseen  company 

To  make  the  spirit  quail : 
'Twixt  Want  and  Scorn  she  walked  forlornr 

And  nothing  could  avail. 

No  mercy  now  can  clear  her  brow 
For  this  world's  peace  to  pray, 


THE   ETERNAL   GOODNESS          37 

For,  as  love's  wild  prayer  dissolved  in  air, 
Her  woman's  heart  gave  way!  — 

But  the  sin  forgiven  by  Christ  in  heaven 
By  man  is  cursed  alway! 

Nathaniel  Parker  Wittis. 


THE  ETERNAL  GOODNESS 

0  FRIENDS  !  with  whom  my  feet  have  trod 
The  quiet  aisles  of  prayer, 

Glad  witness  to  your  zeal  for  God 
And  love  of  man  I  bear. 

1  trace  your  lines  of  argument; 
Your  logic  linked  and  strong 

I  weigh  as  one  who  dreads  dissent, 
And  fears  a  doubt  as  wrong. 

But  still  my  human  hands  are  weak 

To  hold  your  iron  creeds: 
Against  the  words  ye  bid  me  speak 

My  heart  within  me  pleads. 

Who  fathoms  the  Eternal  Thought? 

Who  talks  of  scheme  and  plan? 
The  Lord  is  God!  He  needeth  not 

The  poor  device  of  man. 

I  walk  with  bare,  hushed  feet  the  ground 

Ye  tread  with  boldness  shod; 
I  dare  not  fix  with  mete  and  bound 

The  love  and  power  of  God. 


38      JOHN   GREENLEAF  WHITTIER 

Ye  praise  His  justice;  even  such 

His  pitying  love  I  deem; 
Ye  seek  a  king;  I  fain  would  touch 

The  robe  that  hath  no  seam. 

Ye  see  the  curse  which  overbroods 

A  world  of  pain  and  loss; 
I  hear  our  Lord's  beatitudes 

And  prayer  upon  the  cross. 

More  than  your  schoolmen  teach,  within 

Myself,  alas!  I  know: 
Too  dark  ye  cannot  paint  the  sin, 

Too  small  the  merit  show. 

I  bow  my  forehead  to  the  dust, 
I  veil  mine  eyes  for  shame, 

And  urge,  in  trembling  self-distrust, 
A  prayer  without  a  claim. 

I  see  the  wrong  that  round  me  lies, 

I  feel  the  guilt  within; 
I  hear,  with  groan  and  travail-cries, 

The  world  confess  its  sin. 

Yet,  in  the  maddening  maze  of  things, 
And  tossed  by  storm  and  flood, 

To  one  fixed  trust  my  spirit  clings: 
I  know  that  God  is  good ! 

Not  mine  to  look  where  cherubim 

And  seraphs  may  not  see, 
But  nothing  can  be  good  in  Him 

Which  evil  is  in  me. 


THE  ETERNAL   GOODNESS 

The  wrong  that  pains  my  soul  below 

I  dare  not  throne  above, 
I  know  not  of  His  hate,  —  I  know 

His  goodness  and  His  love. 

I  dimly  guess  from  blessings  known 

Of  greater  out  of  sight, 
And,  with  the  chastened  Psalmist,  own 

His  judgments  too  are  right. 

I  long  for  household  voices  gone, 
For  vanished  smiles  I  long, 

But  God  hath  led  my  dear  ones  on, 
And  He  can  do  no  wrong. 

I  know  not  what  the  future  hath 

Of  marvel  or  surprise, 
Assured  alone  that  life  and  death 

His  mercy  underlies. 

And  if  my  heart  and  flesh  are  weak 

To  bear  an  untried  pain, 
The  bruised  reed  He  will  not  break. 

But  strengthen  and  sustain. 

No  offering  of  my  own  I  have, 
Nor  works  my  faith  to  prove; 

I  can  but  give  the  gifts  He  gave, 
And  plead  His  love  for  love. 

And  so  beside  the  Silent  Sea 

I  wait  the  muffled  oar; 
No  harm  from  Him  can  come  to  me 

On  ocean  or  on  shore. 


40     JOHN   GREENLEAF   WHITTIER 

I  know  not  where  His  islands  lift 

Their  fronded  palms  in  air; 
I  only  know  I  cannot  drift 

Beyond  His  love  and  care. 

O  brothers!  if  my  faith  is  vain, 

If  hopes  like  these  betray, 
Pray  for  me  that  my  feet  may  gain 

The  sure  and  safer  way. 

And  thou,  O  Lord !  by  whom  are  seen 

Thy  creatures  as  they  be, 
Forgive  me  if  too  close  I  lean 

My  human  heart  on  Thee! 

John  Greenleaf  Whittier. 


MY  PLAYMATE 

THE  pines  were  dark  on  Ramoth  hill, 
Their  song  was  soft  and  low; 

The  blossoms  in  the  sweet  May  wind 
Were  falling  like  the  snow. 

The  blossoms  drifted  at  our  feet, 
The  orchard  birds  sang  clear; 

The  sweetest  and  the  saddest  day 
It  seemed  of  all  the  year. 

For,  more  to  me  than  birds  or  flowers, 
My  playmate  left  her  home, 

And  took  with  her  the  laughing  spring, 
The  music  and  the  bloom. 


MY  PLAYMATE  41 

She  kissed  the  lips  of  kith  and  kin, 

She  laid  her  hand  in  mine; 
What  more  could  ask  the  bashful  boy 

Who  fed  her  father's  kine? 

She  left  us  in  the  bloom  of  May: 

The  constant  years  told  o'er 
Their  seasons  with  as  sweet  May  morns, 

But  she  came  back  no  more. 

I  walk,  with  noiseless  feet,  the  round 

Of  uneventful  years; 
Still  o'er  and  o'er  I  sow  the  spring 

And  reap  the  autumn  ears. 

She  lives  where  all  the  golden  year 

Her  summer  roses  blow; 
The  dusky  children  of  the  sun 

Before  her  come  and  go. 

There  haply  with  her  jewelled  hands 
She  smooths  her  silken  gown,  — 

No  more  the  homespun  lap  wherein 
I  shook  the  walnuts  down. 

The  wild  grapes  wait  us  by  the  brook, 

The  brown  nuts  on  the  hill, 
And  still  the  May-day  flowers  make  sweet 

The  woods  of  Foliymill. 

The  lilies  blossom  in  the  pond, 

The  bird  builds  in  the  tree, 
The  dark  pines  sing  on  Ramoth  hill 

The  slow  song  of  the  sea. 


42     JOHN   GREENLEAF  WHITTIER 

I  wonder  if  she  thinks  of  them, 
And  how  the  old  time  seems,         * 

If  ever  the  pines  of  Ramoth  wood 
Are  sounding  in  her  dreams. 

I  see  her  face,  I  hear  her  voice, 

Does  she  remember  mine? 
And  what  to  her  is  now  the  boy 

Who  fed  her  father's  kine? 

What  cares  she  that  the  orioles  build 

For  other  eyes  than  ours,  — 
That  other  hands  with  nuts  are  filled, 

And  other  laps  with  flowers? 

O  playmate  in  the  golden  time! 

Our  mossy  seat  is  green, 
Its  fringing  violets  blossom  yet, 

The  old  trees  o'er  it  lean. 

The  winds  so  sweet  with  birch  and  fern 

A  sweeter  memory  blow, 
And  there  in  spring  the  veeries  sing 

A  song  of  long  ago. 

And  still  the  pines  of  Ramoth  wood 
Are  moaning  like  the  sea,  — 

The  moaning  of  the  sea  of  change 
Between  myself  and  thee! 

John  Greenlectf  Whittles 


THE   BAREFOOT   BOY  48 


THE  BAREFOOT  BOY 

BLESSINGS  on  thee,  little  man, 
Barefoot  boy,  with  cheek  of  tan! 
With  thy  turned-up  pantaloons. 
And  thy  merry  whistled  tunes; 
With  thy  red  lip,  redder  still 
Kissed  by  strawberries  on  the  hill; 
With  the  sunshine  on  thy  face, 
Through  thy  torn  brim's  jaunty  gracej 
From  my  heart  I  give  thee  joy,  — 
I  was  once  a  barefoot  boy! 
Prince  thou  art,  —  the  grown-up  man 
Only  is  republican. 
Let  the  million-dollared  ride! 
Barefoot,  trudging  at  his  side, 
Thou  hast  more  than  he  can  buy 
In  the  reach  of  ear  and  eye,  — 
Outward  sunshine,  inward  joy: 
Blessings  on  thee,  barefoot  boy! 

Oh  for  boyhood's  painless  play, 
Sleep  that  wakes  in  laughing  day, 
Health  that  mocks  the  doctor's  rules9 
Knowledge  never  learned  of  schools, 
Of  the  wild  bee's  morning  chase, 
Of  the  wild  flower's  time  and  place. 
Flight  of  fowl  and  habitude 
Of  the  tenants  of  the  wood; 
How  the  tortoise  bears  his  shell, 
How  the  woodchuck  digs  his  cell, 
And  the  ground-mole  sinks  his  well; 


44      JOHN   GREENLEAF   WHITTIER 

How  the  robin  feeds  her  young, 
How  the  oriole's  nest  is  hung; 
Where  the  whitest  lilies  blow, 
Where  the  Treshest  berries  grow, 
Where  the  ground-nut  trails  its  vine, 
Where  the  wood-grape's  clusters  shine; 
Of  the  black  wasp's  cunning  way, 
Mason  of  his  walls  of  clay, 
And  the  architectural  plans 
Of  gray  hornet  artisans! 
For,  eschewing  books  and  tasks, 
Nature  answers  all  he  asks; 
Hand  in  hand  with  her  he  walks, 
Face  to  face  with  her  he  talks, 
Part  and  parcel  of  her  joy,  — 
Blessings  on  the  barefoot  boy! 

Oh  for  boyhood's  time  of  June, 
Crowding  years  in  one  brief  moon, 
When  all  things  I  heard  or  saw, 
Me,  their  master,  waited  for. 
I  was  rich  in  flowers  and  trees, 
Humming-birds  and  honey-bees; 
For  my  sport  the  squirrel  played, 
Plied  the  snouted  mole  his  spade; 
For  my  taste  the  blackberry  cone 
Purpled  over  hedge  and  stone; 
Laughed  the  brook  for  my  delight 
Through  the  day  and  through  the  night,  - 
Whispering  at  the  garden  wall, 
Talked  with  me  from  fall  to  fall; 
Mine  the  sand-rimmed  pickerel  pond, 
Mine  the  walnut  slopes  beyond, 


THE   BAREFOOT   BOY  45 

Mine,  on  bending  orchard  trees, 
Apples  of  Hesperides! 
Still  as  my  horizon  grew, 
Larger  grew  my  riches  too; 
All  the  world  I  saw  or  knew 
Seemed  a  complex  Chinese  toy, 
Fashioned  for  a  barefoot  boy! 

Oh  for  festal  dainties  spread, 
Like  my  bowl  of  milk  and  bread; 
Pewter  spoon  and  bowl  of  wood, 
On  the  door-stone,  gray  and  rude! 
O'er  me,  like  a  regal  tent, 
Cloudy-ribbed,  the  sunset  bent, 
Purple-curtained,  fringed  with  gold, 
Looped  in  many  a  wind-swung  fold; 
While  for  music  came  the  play 
Of  the  pied  frogs'  orchestra; 
And,  to  light  the  noisy  choir, 
Lit  the  fly  his  lamp  of  fire. 
I  was  monarch:  pomp  and  joy 
Waited  on  the  barefoot  boy! 

Cheerily,  then,  my  little  man, 
Live  and  laugh,  as  boyhood  can! 
Though  the  flinty  slopes  be  hard, 
Stubble-speared  the  new-mown  sward, 
Every  morn  shall  lead  thee  through 
Fresh  baptisms  of  the  dew; 
Every  evening  from  thy  feet 
Shall  the  cool  wind  kiss  the  heat: 
All  too  soon  these  feet  must  hide 
In  the  prison  cells  of  pride, 


46      JOHN   GREENLEAF   WHITTIER 

Lose  the  freedom  of  the  sod, 
Like  a  colt's  for  work  be  shod, 
Made  to  tread  the  mills  of  toil, 
Up  and  down  in  ceaseless  moil: 
Happy  if  their  track  be  found 
Never  on  forbidden  ground; 
Happy  if  they  sink  not  in 
Quick  and  treacherous  sands  of  sin. 
Ah!  that  thou  couldst  know  thy  joy, 
Ere  it  passes,  barefoot  boy! 

John  Greenleaf  Whittier. 

ICHABOD 

So  fallen!  so  lost!  the  light  withdrawn 

Which  once  he  wore! 
The  glory  from  his  gray  hairs  gone 

Forevermore! 

Revile  him  not,  the  Tempter  hath 

A  snare  for  all; 
And  pitying  tears,  not  scorn  and  wrath, 

Befit  his  fall! 

Oh,  dumb  be  passion's  stormy  rage, 

When  he  who  might 
Have  lighted  up  and  led  his  age> 

Falls  back  in  night. 

Scorn!  would  the  angels  laugh,  to  mark 

A  bright  soul  driven, 
Fiend-goaded,  down  the  endless  dark, 

From  hope  and  heaven! 


ISRAFEL  47 


Let  not  the  land  once  proud  of  him 

Insult  him  now, 
Nor  brand  with  deeper  shame  his  dim, 

Dishonored  brow. 

But  let  its  humbled  sons,  instead, 

From  sea  to  lake, 
A  long  lament,  as  for  the  dead, 

In  sadness  make. 

Of  all  we  loved  and  honored,  naugh? 

Save  power  remains; 
A  fallen  angel's  pride  of  thought, 

Still  strong  in  chains. 

All  else  is  gone;  from  those  great  eyes 

The  soul  has  fled: 
When  faith  is  lost,  when  honor  dies, 

The  man  is  dead! 

Then,  pay  the  reverence  of  old  days 

To  his  dead  fame; 
Walk  backward,  with  averted  gaze, 

And  hide  the  shame! 

John  Greenleaf  Whittbr. 


ISRAFEL 

IN  Heaven  a  spirit  doth  dwell 

"  Whose  heart-strings  are  a  lute ' 
None  sing  so  wildly  well 
As  the  angel  Israfel, 


48  EDGAR  ALLAN   POE 

And  the  giddy  stars  (so  legends  tell), 
Ceasing  their  hymns,  attend  the  spell 
Of  his  voice,  all  mute. 

Tottering  above 

In  her  highest  noon, 

The  enamoured  moon 
Blushes  with  love, 

While,  to  listen,  the  red  levin 

(With  the  rapid  Pleiads,  even, 

Which  were  seven) 

Pauses  in  Heaven. 

And  they  say  (the  starry  choir 
And  the  other  listening  things) 

That  Israfeli's  fire 

Is  owing  to  that  lyre 

By  which  he  sits  and  sings  — 

The  trembling  living  wire 

Of  those  unusual  strings. 

But  the  skies  that  angel  trod, 

Where  deep  thoughts  are  a  duty  -= 

Where  Love's  a  grown-up  god  — 
Where  the  Houri  glances  are 

Imbued  with  all  the  beauty 
Which  we  worship  in  a  star. 

Therefore  thou  art  not  wrong, 

Israfeli,  who  despisest 
An  unimpassioned  song; 
To  thee  the  laurels  belong, 

Best  bard,  because  the  wisest! 
Merrily  live,  and  long! 


THE  VALLEY   OF   UNREST          40 

The  ecstasies  above 

With  thy  burning  measures  suit  — 
Thy  grief,  thy  joy,  thy  hate,  thy  love, 

With  the  fervor  of  thy  lute  — 

Well  may  the  stars  be  mute! 

Yes,  Heaven  is  thine;  but  this 
Is  a  world  of  sweets  and  sours; 
Our  flowers  are  merely  —  flowers, 

And  the  shadow  of  thy  perfect  bliss 
Is  the  sunshine  of  ours. 

If  I  could  dwell 
Where  Israfel 

Hath  dwelt,  and  he  where  I, 
He  might  not  sing  so  wildly  well 

A  mortal  melody, 
While  a  bolder  note  than  this  might  swell 

From  my  lyre  within  the  sky. 

Edgar  Allan  Pot 


THE  VALLEY  OF  UNREST 

ONCE  it  smiled  a  silent  dell 
Where  the  people  did  not  dwell; 
They  had  gone  unto  the  wars, 
Trusting  to  the  mild-eyed  stars, 
Nightly,  from  their  azure  towers, 
To  keep  watch  above  the  flowers, 
In  the  midst  of  which  all  day 
The  red  sunlight  lazily  lay. 


50 EDGAR   ALLAN   FOE 

Now  each  visitor  shall  confess 

The  sad  valley's  restlessness. 

Nothing  there  is  motionless  — 

Nothing  save  the  airs  that  brood 

Over  the  magic  solitude. 

Ah,  by  no  wind  are  stirred  those  trees 

That  palpitate  like  the  chill  seas 

Around  the  misty  Hebrides ! 

Ah,  by  no  wind  those  clouds  are  driven 

That  rustle  through  the  unquiet  Heaven 

Uneasily,  from  morn  till  even, 

Over  the  violets  there  that  lie 

In  myriad  types  of  the  human  eye  — 

Over  the  lilies  there  that  wave 

And  weep  above  a  nameless  grave! 

They  wave :  —  from  out  their  fragrant  tops 

Eternal  dews  come  down  in  drops. 

They  weep :  —  from  off  their  delicate  stems 

Perennial  tears  descend  in  gems. 

Edgar  Attan  Pee. 

TO  ONE  IN  PARADISE 

THOU  wast  that  all  to  me,  love, 

For  which  my  soul  did  pine  — 
A  green  isle  in  the  sea,  love, 

A  fountain  and  a  shrine, 
All  wreathed  with  fairy  fruits  and  flowers, 

And  all  the  flowers  were  mine. 

Ah,  dream  too  bright  to  last! 

Ah,  starry  Hope!  that  didst  arise 
But  to  be  overcast ! 


TO   HELEN  51 


A  voice  from  out  the  Future  cries, 
"On!  on!"  —  but  o'er  the  Past 

(Dim  gulf !)  my  spirit  hovering  lies 
Mute,  motionless,  aghast! 

For,  alas!  alas!  with  me 

The  light  of  Life  is  o'er! 

"No  more  —  no  more  —  no  more  — * 
(Such  language  holds  the  solemn  sea 

To  the  sands  upon  the  shore) 
Shall  bloom  the  thunder-blasted  tree, 

Or  the  stricken  eagle  soar! 

And  all  my  days  are  trances, 

And  all  my  nightly  dreams 
Are  where  thy  dark  eye  glances, 

And  where  thy  footstep  gleams  — 
In  what  ethereal  dances, 

By  what  eternal  streams. 

Edgar  Allan  Po* 

TO  HELEN 

HELEN,  thy  beauty  is  to  me 

Like  those  Nicean  barks  of  yore, 

That  gently,  o'er  a  perfumed  sea, 
The  weary,  wayworn  wanderer  bore 
To  his  own  native  shore. 

On  desperate  seas  long  wont  to  roam, 
Thy  hyacinth  hair,  thy  classic  face, 

Thy  Naiad  airs  have  brought  me  home 
To  the  glory  that  was  Greece 
And  the  grandeur  that  was  Rome. 


52  JOHN  HENRY   BONER 

Lo!  in  yon  brilliant  window -niche 
How  statue-like  I  see  thee  stand ! 
The  agate  lamp  within  thy  hand, 

Ah!  Psyche,  from  the  regions  which 
Are  Holy  Land ! 

Edgar  Allan  Poe. 


TO  EDGAR  ALLAN  POE 

IF  thy  sad  heart,  pining  for  human  love, 
In  its  earth  solitude  grew  dark  with  fear, 
Lest  the  high  Sun  of  Heaven  itself  should  prove 
Powerless  to  save  from  that  phantasmal  sphere 
Wherein  thy  spirit  wandered,  —  if  the  flowers 
That  pressed  around  thy  feet,  seemed  but  to  bloom 
In  lone  Gethsemanes,  through  starless  hours, 
When  all  who  loved  had  left  thee  to  thy  doom,  — 
Oh,  yet  believe  that  in  that  hollow  vale 
Where  thy  soul  lingers,  waiting  to  attain 
So  much  of  Heaven's  sweet  grace  as  shall  avail 
To  lift  its  burden  of  remorseful  pain, 
My  soul  shall  meet  thee,  and  its  Heaven  forego 
Till  God's  great  love,  on  both,  one  hope,  one  Heaven 
bestow. 

Sarah  Helen  Whitman. 


POE'S  COTTAGE  AT  FORDHAM 

HERE  lived  the  soul  enchanted 

By  melody  of  song; 
Here  dwelt  the  spirit  haunted 

By  a  demoniac  throng; 


POE'S  COTTAGE  AT  FORDHAM  53 

Here  sang  the  lips  elated; 
Here  grief  and  death  were  sated; 
Here  loved  and  here  unmated 
Was  he,  so  frail,  so  strong. 

Here  wintry  winds  and  cheerless 

The  dying  firelight  blew, 
While  he  whose  song  was  peerless 

Dreamed  the  drear  midnight  through., 
And  from  dull  embers  chilling 
Crept  shadows  darkly  filling 
The  silent  place,  and  thrilling 

His  fancy  as  they  grew. 

Here  with  brows  bared  to  heaven. 

In  starry  night  he  stood, 
With  the  lost  star  of  seven 

Feeling  sad  brotherhood. 
Here  in  the  sobbing  showers 
Of  dark  autumnal  hours 
He  heard  suspected  powers 

Shriek  through  the  stormy  wood. 

From  visions  of  Apollo 

And  of  Astarte's  bliss, 
He  gazed  into  the  hollow 

And  hopeless  vale  of  Dis, 
And  though  earth  were  surrounded 
By  heaven,  it  still  was  mounded 
With  graves.  His  soul  had  sounded 

The  dolorous  abyss. 

Poor,  mad,  but  not  defiant, 
He  touched  at  heaven  and  hell. 


54        OLIVER   WENDELL   HOLMES 

Fate  found  a  rare  soul  pliant 

And  wrung  her  changes  well. 
Alternately  his  lyre, 
Stranded  with  strings  of  fire, 
Led  earth's  most  happy  choir, 
Or  flashed  with  Israfel. 

No  singer  of  old  story 

Luting  accustomed  lays, 
No  harper  for  new  glory, 

No  mendicant  for  praise, 
He  struck  high  chords  and  splendid, 
Wherein  were  finely  blended 
Tones  that  unfinished  ended 

With  his  unfinished  days. 

Here  through  this  lonely  portal, 

Made  sacred  by  his  name. 
Unheralded  immortal 

The  mortal  went  and  came. 
And  fate  that  then  denied  him, 
And  envy  that  decried  him, 
And  malice  that  belied  him, 

Here  cenotaphed  his  fame, 

John  Henry  Boner, 

THE  CHAMBERED  NAUTILUS 

THIS  is  the  ship  of  pearl,  which,  poets  feign, 

Sails  the  unshadowed  main,  — 

The  venturous  bark  that  flings 
On  the  sweet  summer  wind  its  purpled  wings 
In  gulfs  enchanted,  where  the  Siren  sings, 


THE  CHAMBERED   NAUTILUS      55 

And  coral  reefs  lie  bare, 

Where  the  cold  ,sea-maids  rise  to  sun  their  streaming 
hair. 

Its  webs  of  living  gauze  no  more  unfurl; 

Wrecked  is  the  ship  of  pearl! 

And  every  chambered  cell, 
Where  its  dim  dreaming  life  was  wont  to  dwell, 
As  the  frail  tenant  shaped  his  growing  shell, 

Before  thee  lies  revealed,  — 
Its  irised  ceiling  rent,  its  sunless  crypt  unsealed! 

Year  after  year  beheld  the  silent  toil 

That  spread  his  lustrous  coil; 

Still,  as  the  spiral  grew, 
He  left  the  past  year's  dwelling  for  the  new, 
Stole  with  soft  step  its  shining  archway  through, 

Built  up  its  idle  door, 

Stretched  in  his  last-found  home,  and  knew  the  old  n  } 
more. 

Thanks  for  the  heavenly  message  brought  by  thee, 

Child  of  the  wandering  sea, 

Cast  from  her  lap,  forlorn! 
From  thy  dead  lips  a  clearer  note  is  born 
Than  ever  Triton  blew  from  wreathed  horn! 

While  on  mine  ear  it  rings, 

Through  the  deep  caves  of  thought  I  hear  a  voice  that 
sings  — 

Build  thee  more  stately  mansions,  O  my  soul, 
As  the  swift  seasons  roll ! 
Leave  thy  low- vaulted  past! 


56        OLIVER   WENDELL   HOLMES 

Let  each  new  temple,  nobler  than  the  last, 
Shut  thee  from  heaven  with  a  dome  more  vast, 
Till  thou  at  length  art  free, 

Leaving  thine  outgrown  shell  by  life's  unresting  sea! 
Oliver  Wendell  Holmes. 


THE  LAST  LEAF 

I  SAW  him  once  before, 
As  he  passed  by  the  door, 

And  again 

The  pavement  stones  resound, 
As  he  totters  o'er  the  ground 

With  his  cane. 

They  say  that  in  his  prime, 
Ere  the  pruning-knife  of  Time 

Cut  him  down, 
Not  a  better  man  was  found 
By  the  Crier  on  his  round 

Through  the  town. 

But  now  he  walks  the  streets, 
And  he  looks  at  all  he  meets 

Sad  and  wan, 

And  he  shakes  his  feeble  head, 
That  it  seems  as  if  he  said, 

"They  are  gone." 

The  mossy  marbles  rest 
On  the  lips  that  he  has  prest 

In  their  bloom, 


THE   LAST   LEAF  57 

And  the  names  he  loved  to  hear 
Have  been  carved  for  many  a  year 
On  the  tomb. 

My  grandmama  has  said,  — 
Poor  old  lady,  she  is  dead 

Long  ago,  — 

That  he  had  a  Roman  nose, 
And  his  cheek  was  like  a  rose 

In  the  snow; 

But  now  his  nose  is  thin, 
And  it  rests  upon  his  chin 

Like  a  staff, 

And  a  crook  is  in  his  back, 
And  a  melancholy  crack 

In  his  laugh. 

I  know  it  is  a  sin 
For  me  to  sit  and  grin 

At  him  here; 

But  the  old  three-cornered  hat, 
And  the  breeches,  and  all  that, 

Are  so  queer! 

And  if  I  should  live  to  be 
The  last  leaf  upon  the  tree, 

In  the  spring, 

Let  them  smile,  as  I  do  now, 
At  the  old  forsaken  bough 

Where  I  cling. 

Oliver  Wendell  Holmes* 


£8    CHRISTOPHER  PEARSE   CRANCH 


GNOSIS 

THOUGHT  is  deeper  than  all  speech, 
Feeling  deeper  than  all  thought; 

Souls  to  souls  can  never  teach 

What  unto  themselves  was  taught. 

We  are  spirits  clad  in  veils; 

Man  by  man  was  never  seen; 
All  our  deep  communing  fails 

To  remove  the  shadowy  screen. 

Heart  to  heart  was  never  known; 

Mind  with  mind  did  never  meet; 
We  are  columns  left  alone 

Of  a  temple  once  complete. 

Like  the  stars  that  gem  the  sky, 
Far  apart,  though  seeming  near, 

In  our  light  we  scattered  lie; 
All  is  thus  but  starlight  here. 

What  is  social  company 

But  a  babbling  summer  stream? 
What  our  wise  philosophy 

But  the  glancing  of  a  dream? 

Only  when  the  sun  of  love 

Melts  the  scattered  stars  of  thought, 
Only  when  we  live  above 

What  the  dim-eyed  world  hath  taught, 


YOURSELF 


Only  when  our  souls  are  fed 

By  the  fount  which  gave  them  birth, 

And  by  inspiration  led 

Which  they  never  drew  from  earth, 

We,  like  parted  drops  of  rain, 

Swelling  till  they  meet  and  run, 
Shall  be  all  absorbed  again, 

Melting,  flowing  into  one. 

Christopher  Pearse  Cranch 

A  DEATH-BED 

HER  suffering  ended  with  the  day, 

Yet  lived  she  at  its  close, 
And  breathed  the  long,  long  night  away, 

In  statue-like  repose. 

But  when  the  sun  in  all  his  state 

Illumed  the  eastern  skies, 
She  passed  through  Glory's  morning  gate 

And  walked  in  Paradise. 

James  Aldrich 


YOURSELF 

T  is  to  yourself  I  speak;  you  cannot  know 
Him  whom  I  call  in  speaking  such  a  one, 
For  you  beneath  the  earth  lie  buried  low, 
Which  he,  alone,  as  living  walks  upon. 
You  may  at  times  have  heard  him  speak  to  you, 
And  oftep  wished  perchance  that  you  were  he; 


60  JONES   VERY 

And  I  must  ever  wish  that  it  were  true, 
For  then  you  could  hold  fellowship  with  me: 
But  now  you  hear  us  talk  as  strangers,  met 
Above  the  room  wherein  you  lie  abed ; 
A  word  perhaps  loud  spoken  you  may  get, 
Or  hear  our  feet  when  heavily  they  tread; 
But  he  who  speaks,  or  he  who  's  spoken  to, 
Must  both  remain  as  strangers  still  to  you. 

Jones  Very* 

THE  IDLER 

I  IDLE  stand  that  I  may  find  employ, 

Such  as  my  Master  when  He  comes  will  give; 

I  cannot  find  in  mine  own  work  my  joy, 

But  wait,  although  in  waiting  I  must  live; 

My  body  shall  not  turn  which  way  it  will, 

But  stand  till  I  the  appointed  road  can  find, 

And  journeying  so  his  messages  fulfil, 

And  do  at  every  step  the  work  designed. 

Enough  for  me,  still  day  by  day  to  wait 

Till  Thou  who  formest  me  findest  me  too  a  task, 

A  cripple  lying  at  the  rich  man's  gate, 

Content  for  the  few  crumbs  I  get  to  ask, 

A  laborer  but  in  heart,  while  bound  my  hands 

Hang  idly  down  still  waiting  thy  commands. 

Jones  Very. 

MY  PRAYER 

G*IEAI  God,  I  ask  thee  for  no  meaner  pelf 
Than  that  I  may  not  disappoint  myself; 
That,  in  my  action  I  may  soar  as  high 
As  I  can  now  discern  with  this  clear  eyea 


INSPIRATION  61 

And  next  in  value,  which  thy  kindness  lends, 
That  I  may  greatly  disappoint  my  friends, 
Howe'er  they  think  or  hope  that  it  may  be, 
They  may  not  dream  how  thou'st  distinguished  me. 

That  my  weak  hand  may  equal  my  firm  faith, 
And  my  life  practise  more  than  my  tongue  saith; 
That  my  low  conduct  may  not  show, 

Nor  my  relenting  lines, 
That  I  thy  purpose  did  not  know, 
Or  overrated  thy  designs. 

Henry  David  Thoreau* 


INSPIRATION 

IF  with  light  head  erect  I  sing, 

Though  all  the  Muses  lend  their  force, 

From  my  poor  love  of  anything, 

The  verse  is  weak  and  shallow  as  its  source. 

But  if  with  bended  neck  I  grope 

Listening  behind  me  for  my  wit, 

With  faith  superior  to  hope, 

More  anxious  to  keep  back  than  forward  it,  — 

Making  my  soul  accomplice  there 

Unto  the  flame  my  heart  hath  lit, 

Then  will  the  verse  forever  wear,  — 

Time  cannot  bend  the  line  which  God  has  write 

I  hearing  get,  who  had  but  ears, 
And  sight,  who  had  but  eyes  before; 


62  HENRY   DAVID   THOREAU 

I  moments  live,  who  lived  but  years, 

And  truth  discern,  who  knew  but  learning's  lore 

Now  chiefly  is  my  natal  hour, 

And  only  now  my  prime  of  life; 

Of  manhood's  strength  it  is  the  flower, 

*T  is  peace's  end,  and  war's  beginning  strife. 

It  comes  in  summer's  broadest  noon, 
By  a  gray  wall,  or  some  chance  place, 
Unseasoning  time,  insulting  June, 
And  vexing  day  with  its  presuming  face. 

I  will  not  doubt  the  love  untold 
Which  not  my  worth  nor  want  hath  bought, 
Which  wooed  me  young,  and  wooes  me  old, 
And  to  this  evening  hath  me  brought. 

Henry  David  Thoreau. 


SMOKE 

LIGHT- WINGED  Smoke !  Icarian  bird, 
Melting  thy  pinions  in  thy  upward  flight, 
Lark  without  song,  and  messenger  of  ,flawn, 
Circling  above  the  hamlets  as  thy  nest; 
Or  else,  departing  dream,  and  shadowy  form 
Of  midnight  vision,  gathering  up  thy  skirts; 
By  night  star-veiling,  and  by  day 
Darkening  the  light  and  blotting  out  the  sun; 
Go  thou  my  incense  upward  from  this  hearth, 
And  ask  the  gods  to  pardon  this  clear  flame. 

.  Henry  David  Thorcaii* 


THOREAU'S  FLUTE       63 


THOREAU 

WHO  nearer  Nature's  life  would  truly  come 
Must  nearest  come  to  him  of  whom  I  speak; 
He  all  kinds  knew,  —  the  vocal  and  the  dumb; 
Masterful  in  genius  was  he,  and  unique, 
Patient,  sagacious,  tender,  frolicsome. 
This  Concord  Pan  would  oft  his  whistle  take, 
And  forth  from  wood  and  fen,  field,  hill,  and  lake, 
Trooping  around  him  in  their  several  guise, 
The  shy  inhabitants  their  haunts  forsake: 
Then  he,  like  ^Esop,  man  would  satirize, 
Hold  up  the  image  wild  to  clearest  view 
Of  undiscerning  manhood's  puzzled  eyes, 
And  mocking  say,  "Loi  mirrors  here  for  you: 
Be  true  as  these,  if  ye  would  be  more  wise." 

Amos  Bronson  Alcott, 

THOREAU'S  FLUTE 

WE,  sighing,  said,  "Our  Pan  is  dead; 

His  pipe  hangs  mute  beside  the  river; 

Around  it  wistful  sunbeams  quiver, 
But  Music's  airy  voice  is  fled. 
Spring  mourns  as  for  untimely  frost; 

The  bluebird  chants  a  requiem; 

The  willow-blossom  waits  for  him :  — 
The  Genius  of  the  wood  is  lost." 

Then  from  the  flute,  untouched  by  hands, 
There  came  a  low,  harmonious  breath: 
"For  such  as  he  there  is  no  death; 

His  life  the  eternal  life  commands; 


64     WILLIAM   ELLERY   CHANNING 

Above  man's  aims  his  nature  rose: 
The  wisdom  of  a  just  content 
Made  one  small  spot  a  continent, 

And  turned  to  poetry  Life's  prose. 

"Haunting  the  hills,  the  stream,  the  wild, 
Swallow  and  aster,  lake  and  pine, 
To  him  grew  human  or  divine,  — 

Fit  mates  for  this  large-hearted  child. 

Such  homage  Nature  ne'er  forgets, 
And  yearly  on  the  coverlid 
'Neath  which  her  darling  lieth  hid 

Will  write  his  name  in  violets. 

"To  him  no  vain  regrets  belong, 

Whose  soul,  that  finer  instrument, 
Gave  to  the  world  no  poor  lament, 
But  wood-notes  ever  sweet  and  strong. 
O  lonely  friend !  he  still  will  be 

A  potent  presence,  though  unseen,  — 
Steadfast,  sagacious,  and  serene: 
Seek  not  for  him,  —  he  is  with  thee." 

Louisa  May  Alcoti. 

TEARS  IN  SPRING 

(LAMENT  FOR  THOREAU) 

THE  swallow  is  flying  over, 

But  he  will  not  come  to  me; 

He  flits,  my  daring  rover, 

From  land  to  land,  from  sea  to  sea; 

Where  hot  Bermuda's  reef 

Its  barrier  lifts  to  fortify  the  shore, 


TEARS   IN   SPRING  65 

Above  the  surf's  wild  roar 

He  darts  as  swiftly  o'er,  — 

But  he  who  heard  his  cry  of  spring 

Hears  that  no  more,  heeds  not  his  wing. 

How  bright  the  skies  that  dally 

Along  day's  cheerful  arch, 

And  paint  the  sunset  valley! 

How  redly  buds  the  larch! 

Blackbirds  are  singing, 

Clear  hylas  ringing, 

Over  the  meadow  the  frogs  proclaim 

The  coming  of  Spring  to  boy  and  dame, 

But  not  to  me,  — 

Northee! 

And  golden  crowfoot's  shining  near, 
Spring  everywhere  that  shoots  't  is  clears 
A  wail  in  the  wind  is  all  I  hear; 
A  voice  of  woe  for  a  lover's  loss, 
A  motto  for  a  travelling  cross,  — 
And  yet  it  is  mean  to  mourn  for  thee, 
In  the  form  of  bird  or  blossom  or  bee. 

Cold  are  the  sods  of  the  valley  to-day 
Where  thou  art  sleeping, 
That  took  thee  back  to  thy  native  clay; 
Cold,  —  if  above  thee  the  grass  is  peeping 
And  the  patient  sunlight  creeping, 
While  the  bluebird  sits  on  the  locust-bough 
Whose  shadow  is  painted  across  thy  brow, 
And  carols  his  welcome  so  sad  and  sweet 
To  the  Spring  that  comes  and  kisses  his  feet. 
William  Elhry  Charming^ 


66          JAMES   RUSSELL   LOWELL 

SHE  CAME  AND  WENT 

As  a  twig  trembles,  which  a  bird 

Lights  on  to  sing,  then  leaves  unbent, 

So  is  my  memory  thrilled  and  stirred;  — 
I  only  know  she  came  and  went. 

As  clasps  some  lake,  by  gusts  unriven, 

The  blue  dome's  measureless  content, 

So  my  soul  held  that  moment's  heaven;  — 
I  only  know  she  came  and  went. 

As,  at  one  bound,  our  swift  spring  heaps 
The  orchards  full  of  bloom  and  scent, 

So  clove  her  May  my  wintry  sleeps;  — 
I  only  know  she  came  and  went. 

An  angel  stood  and  met  my  gaze, 

Through  the  low  doorway  of  my  tent; 

The  tent  is  struck,  the  vision  stays;  — 
I  only  know  she  came  and  went. 

Oh,  when  the  room  grows  slowly  dim, 
And  life's  last  oil  is  nearly  spent, 

One  gush  of  light  these  eyes  will  brim, 
Only  to  think  she  came  and  went. 

James  Russell  Lowell. 

MY  LOVE 

Nor  as  all  other  women  are 
Is  she  that  to  my  soul  is  dear; 
Her  glorious  fancies  come  from  far, 
Beneath  the  silver  evening-star, 
And  yet  her  heart  is  ever  near. 


M\    LOVE  67 

Great  feelings  hath  she  of  her  own, 
Which  lesser  souls  may  never  know; 
God  giveth  them  to  her  alone, 
And  sweet  they  are  as  any  tone 
Wherewith  the  wind  may  choose  to  blow. 

Yet  in  herself  she  dwelleth  not, 
Although  no  home  were  half  so  fair; 
No  simplest  duty  is  forgot, 
Life  hath  no  dim  and  lowly  spot 
That  doth  not  in  her  sunshine  share. 

She  doeth  little  kindnesses, 

Which  most  leave  undone,  or  despise: 

For  naught  that  sets  one  heart  at  ease, 

And  giveth  happiness  or  peace, 

Is  low-esteemed  in  her  eyes. 

She  hath  no  scorn  of  common  things, 
And,  though  she  seem  of  other  birth, 
Round  us  her  heart  entwines  and  clings. 
And  patiently  she  folds  her  wings 
To  tread  the  humble  paths  of  earth. 

Blessing  she  is :  God  made  her  so, 
And  deeds  of  week-day  holiness 
Fall  from  her  noiseless  as  the  snow, 
Nor  hath  she  ever  chanced  to  know 
That  aught  were  easier  than  to  bless. 

She  is  most  fair,  and  thereunto 
Her  life  doth  rightly  harmonize; 
Feeling  or  thought  that  was  not  true 


68          JAMES   RUSSELL   LOWELL 

Ne'er  made  less  beautiful  the  blue 
Unclouded  heaven  of  her  eyes. 

She  is  a  woman :  one  in  whom 
The  springtime  of  her  childish  years 
Hath  never  lost  its  fresh  perfume, 
Though  knowing  well  that  life  hath  room 
For  many  blights  and  many  tears. 

I  love  her  with  a  love  as  still 
As  a  broad  river's  peaceful  might, 
Which,  by  high  tower  and  lowly  mill, 
Seems  following  its  own  wayward  will, 
And  yet  doth  ever  flow  aright. 

And,  on  its  full,  deep  breast  serene, 

Like  nuiet  isles  my  duties  lie; 

It  flows  around  them  and  between, 

And  makes  them  fresh  and  fair  and  green, 

Sweet  homes  wherein  to  live  and  die. 

James  Russell  Lowell. 

COMMEMORATION  ODE 

i 

WEAK-winged  is  song, 
Nor  aims  at  that  clear-ethered  height 
Whither  the  brave  deed  climbs  for  light: 

We  seem  to  do  them  wrong, 
Bringing  our  robin's-leaf  to  deck  their  hearse 
Who  in  warm  life-blood  wrote  their  nobler  verse, 
Our  trivial  song  to  honor  those  who  come 
With  ears  attuned  to  strenuous  trump  and  drum, 


COMMEMORATION   ODE 

And  shaped  in  squadron-strophes  their  desire, 
Live  battle-odes  whose  lines  were  steel  and  fire: 

Yet  sometimes  feathered  words  are  strong, 
A  gracious  memory  to  buoy  up  and  save 
From  Lethe's  dreamless  ooze,  the  common  grave 

Of  the  unventurous  throng. 


To-day  our  Reverend  Mother  welcomes  back 
Her  wisest  Scholars,  those  who  understood 
The  deeper  teaching  of  her  mystic  tome, 
And  offered  their  fresh  lives  to  make  it  good: 

No  lore  of  Greece  or  Rome, 
No  science  peddling  with  the  names  of  things, 
Or  reading  stars  to  find  inglorious  fates, 

Can  lift  our  life  with  wings 
Far  from  Death's  idle  gulf  that  for  the  many  waits 

And  lengthen  out  our  dates 
With  that  clear  fame  whose  memory  sings 
In  manly  hearts  to  come,  and  nerves  them  and  dilates^ 
Nor  such  thy  teaching,  Mother  of  us  all! 

Not  such  the  trumpet-call 

Of  thy  diviner  mood, 

That  could  thy  sons  entice 
From  happy  homes  and  toils,  the  fruitful  nest 
Of  those  half-virtues  which  the  world  calls  best, 

Into  War's  tumult  rude; 

But  rather  far  that  stern  device 
The  sponsors  chose  that  round  thy  cradle  stood 

In  the  dim,  unventured  wood, 

The  VERITAS  that  lurks  beneath 

The  letter's  unprolific  sheath, 
Life  of  whate'er  makes  life  worth  living, 


70  JAMES   RUSSELL   LOWELL 

Seed-grain  of  high  emprise,  immortal  food, 

One  heavenly  thing  whereof  earth  hath  the  giving. 


Many  loved  Truth,  and  lavished  life's  best  oil 

Amid  the  dust  of  books  to  find  her, 
Content  at  last,  for  guerdon  of  their  toil, 

With  the  cast  mantle  she  hath  left  behind  her. 

Many  in  sad  faith  sought  for  her, 

Many  with  crossed  hands  sighed  for  her; 

But  these,  our  brothers,  fought  for  her, 

At  life's  dear  peril  wrought  for  her, 

So  loved  her  that  they  died  for  her, 

Tasting  the  raptured  fieetness 

Of  her  divine  completeness: 

Their  higher  instinct  knew 

Those  love  her  best  who  to  themselves  are  true, 
And  what  they  dare  to  dream  of,  dare  to  do; 

They  followed  her  and  found  her 

Where  all  may  hope  to  find, 
Not  in  the  ashes  of  the  burnt-out  mind, 
But  beautiful,  with  danger's  sweetness  round  her. 

Where  faith  made  whole  with  deed 

Breathes  its  awakening  breath 

Into  the  lifeless  creed, 

They  saw  her  plumed  and  mailed, 

With  sweet,  stern  face  unveiled, 
And  all-repaying  eyes,  look  proud  on  them  in  death. 

IV 

Our  slender  life  runs  rippling  by,  and  glides 
Into  the  silent  hollow  of  the  past; 
What  is  there  that  abides 


COMMEMORATION   ODE  71 

To  make  the  next  age  better  for  the  last? 

Is  earth  too  poor  to  give  us 
Something  to  live  for  here  that  shall  outlive  us? 

Some  more  substantial  boon 
Than  such  as  flows  and  ebbs  with  Fortune's  fickle 

moon? 

The  little  that  we  see 
From  doubt  is  never  free; 
The  little  that  we  do 
Is  but  half-nobly  true; 
With  our  laborious  hiving 

What  men  call  treasure,  and  the  gods  call  dross, 
Life  seems  a  jest  of  Fate's  contriving, 
Only  secure  in  every  one's  conniving, 
A  long  account  of  nothings  paid  with  loss, 
Where  we  poor  puppets,  jerked  by  unseen  wires. 
After  our  little  hour  of  strut  and  rave, 
With  all  our  pasteboard  passions  and  desires, 
Loves,  hates,  ambitions,  and  immortal  fires, 
Are  tossed  pell-mell  together  in  the  grave. 
But  stay !  no  age  was  e'er  degenerate, 
Unless  men  held  it  at  too  cheap  a  rate, 
For  in  our  likeness  still  we  shape  our  fate. 

Ah,  there  is  something  here 
Unfathomed  by  the  cynic's  sneer, 
Something  that  gives  our  feeble  light 
A  high  immunity  from  Night, 
Something  that  leaps  life's  narrow  bars 
To  claim  its  birthright  with  the  hosts  of  heaven; 

A  seed  of  sunshine  that  can  leaven 
Our  earthly  dullness  with  the  beams  of  stars, 

And  glorify  our  clay 
With  light  from  fountains  elder  than  the  Day; 


72          JAMES   RUSSELL   LOWELL 

A  conscience  more  divine  than  we, 
A  gladness  fed  with  secret  tears, 
A  vexing,  forward-reaching  sense 
Of  some  more  noble  permanence; 

A  light  across  the  sea, 

Which  haunts  the  soul  and  will  not  let  it  be, 
Still  beaconing  from  the  heights  of  undegenerate 
years. 


Whither  leads  the  path 
To  ampler  fates  that  leads? 
Not  down  through  flowery  meads, 
To  reap  an  aftermath 
Of  youth's  vainglorious  weeds, 
But  up  the  steep,  amid  the  wrath 
And  shock  of  deadly-hostile  creeds, 
Where  the  world's  best  hope  and  stay 
By  battle's  flashes  gropes  a  desperate  way, 
And  every  turf  the  fierce  foot  clings  to  bleeds. 
Peace  hath  her  not  ignoble  wreath, 
Ere  yet  the  sharp,  decisive  word 
Light  the  black  lips  of  cannon,  and  the  sword 

Dreams  in  its  easeful  sheath; 
But  some  day  the  live  coal  behind  the  thought, 
Whether  from  Baal's  stone  obscene, 
Or  from  the  shrine  serene 
Of  God's  pure  altar  brought, 
Bursts  up  in  flame;  the  war  of  tongue  and  pen 
Learns  with  what  deadly  purpose  it  was  fraught, 
And,  helpless  in  the  fiery  passion  caught, 
Shakes  all  the  pillared  state  with  shock  of  men : 
Some  day  the  soft  Ideal  that  we  wooed 


COMMEMORATION   ODE  73 

Confronts  us  fiercely,  foe-beset,  pursued, 
And  cries  reproachful:  "Was  it,  then,  my  praise, 
And  not  myself  was  loved?  Prove  now  thy  truth; 
I  claim  of  thee  the  promise  of  thy  youth; 
Give  me  thy  life,  or  cower  in  empty  phrase, 
The  victim  of  thy  genius,  not  its  mate!" 
Life  may  be  given  in  many  ways, 
And  loyalty  to  Truth  be  sealed 
As  bravely  in  the  closet  as  the  field, 

So  bountiful  is  Fate; 

But  then  to  stand  beside  her, 

When  craven  churls  deride  her, 
To  front  a  lie  in  arms  and  not  to  yield, 

This  shows,  methinks,  God's  plan 

And  measure  of  a  stalwart  man, 

Limbed  like  the  old  heroic  breeds, 
Who  stand  self-poised  on  manhood's  solid  earth, 
Not  forced  to  frame  excuses  for  his  birth, 
Fed  from  within  with  all  the  strength  he  needs. 


Such  was  he,  our  Martyr-Chief, 
Whom  late  the  Nation  he  had  led, 
With  ashes  on  her  head, 
Wept  with  the  passion  of  an  angry  grief: 
Forgive  me,  if  from  present  things  I  turn 
To  speak  what  in  my  heart  will  beat  and  burn, 
And  hang  my  wreath  on  his  world-honored  urn. 
Nature,  they  say,  doth  dote, 
And  cannot  make  a  man 
Save  on  some  worn-out  plan, 
Repeating  us  by  rote: 
For  him  her  Old- World  moulds  aside  she  threw, 


74  JAMES   RUSSELL   LOWELL 

And,  choosing  sweet  clay  from  the  breast 

Of  the  unexhausted  West, 
With  stuff  untainted  shaped  a  hero  new, 
Wise,  steadfast  in  the  strength  of  God,  and  true. 

How  beautiful  to  see 

Once  more  a  shepherd  of  mankind  indeed, 
Who  loved  his  charge,  but  never  loved  to  lead; 
One  whose  meek  flock  the  people  joyed  to  be, 

Not  lured  by  any  cheat  of  birth, 

But  by  his  clear-grained  human  worth, 
And  brave  old  wisdom  of  sincerity ! 

They  knew  that  outward  grace  is  dust; 

They  could  not  choose  but  trust 
In  that  sure-footed  mind's  unfaltering  skill, 

And  supple-tempered  will  ; 

That  bent  like  perfect  steel  to  spring  again  and  thrust. 
His  was  no  lonely  mountain-peak  of  mind, 
Thrusting  to  thin  air  o'er  our  cloudy  bars, 
A  sea-mark  now,  now  lost  in  vapor's  blind; 
Broad  prairie  rather,  genial,  level-lined, 
Fruitful  and  friendly  for  all  human  kind, 
Yet  also  nigh  to  heaven  and  loved  of  loftiest  stars. 

Nothing  of  Europe  here, 
Or,  then,  of  Europe  fronting  mornward  still, 

Ere  any  names  of  Serf  and  Peer 

Could  Nature's  equal  scheme  deface 

And  thwart  her  genial  will; 
Here  was  a  type  of  the  true  elder  race, 
Ind  one  of  Plutarch's  men  talked  with  us  face  to 
face. 

I  praise  him  not;  it  were  too  late; 
And  some  innative  weakness  there  must  be 
In  him  who  condescends  to  victory 


COMMEMORATION   ODE  75 

Such  as  the  Present  gives,  and  cannot  wait, 
Safe  in  himself  as  in  a  fate. 
So  always  firmly  he: 
He  knew  to  bide  his  time, 
And  can  his  fame  abide, 
Still  patient  in  his  simple  faith  sublime, 

Till  the  wise  years  decide. 
Great  captains,  with  their  guns  and  drums, 
Disturb  our  judgment  for  the  hour, 

But  at  last  silence  comes; 
These  all  are  gone,  and,  standing  like  a  tower, 

Our  children  shall  behold  his  fame, 
The  kindly-earnest,  brave,  foreseeing  man, 
Sagacious,  patient,  dreading  praise,  not  blame, 
New  birth  of  our  new  soil,  the  first  American. 


Long  as  man's  hope  insatiate  can  discern 

Or  only  guess  some  more  inspiring  goal 

Outside  of  Self,  enduring  as  the  pole, 

Along  whose  course  the  flying  axles  burn 

Of  spirits  bravely-pitched,  earth's  manlier  brood; 

Long  as  below  we  cannot  find 
The  meed  that  stills  the  inexorable  mind; 
So  long  this  faith  to  some  ideal  Good, 
Under  whatever  mortal  names  it  masks, 
Freedom,  Law,  Country,  this  ethereal  mood 
That  thanks  the  Fates  for  their  severer  tasks, 

Feeling  its  challenged  pulses  leap, 
While  others  skulk  in  subterfuges  cheap, 
And,  set  in  Danger's  van,  has  all  the  boon  it  asks, 

Shall  win  man's  praise  and  woman's  love, 
•   Shall  be  a  wisdom  that  we  set  above 


76  JAMES   RUSSELL   LOWELL 

All  other  skills  and  gifts  to  culture  dear, 

A  virtue  round  whose  forehead  we  inwreathe 

Laurels  that  with  a  living  passion  breathe 

When  other  crowns  grow,  while  we  twine  them, 

sear. 

What  brings  us  thronging  these  high  rites  to  pay, 
And  seal  these  hours  the  noblest  of  our  year, 
Save  that  our  brothers  found  this  better  way? 


We  sit  here  in  the  Promised  Land 
That  flows  with  Freedom's  honey  and  milk; 
But  't  was  they  won  it,  sword  in  hand, 
Making  the  nettle  danger  soft  for  us  as  silk. 
We  welcome  back  our  bravest  and  our  best;  — 
Ah  me!  not  all!  some  come  not  with  the  rest, 
Who  went  forth  brave  and  bright  as  any  here! 
I  strive  to  mix  some  gladness  with  my  strain, 
But  the  sad  strings  complain, 
And  will  not  please  the  ear: 
I  sweep  them  for  a  paean,  but  they  wane 

Again  and  yet  again 
Into  a  dirge,  and  die  away,  in  pain. 
In  these  brave  ranks  I  only  see  the  gaps, 
Thinking  of  dear  ones  whom  the  dumb  turf  wraps, 
Dark  to  the  triumph  which  they  died  to  gain: 
Fitlier  may  others  greet  the  living, 
For  me  the  past  is  unforgiving; 
I  with  uncovered  head 
Salute  the  sacred  dead, 

Who  went,  and  who  return  not.  —  Say  not  so! 
'Tis  not  the  grapes  of  Canaan  that  repay, 
But  the  high  faith  that  failed  not  by  the  way; 


COMMEMORATION   ODE  77 

Virtue  treads  paths  that  end  not  in  the  grave; 
No  bar  of  endless  night  exiles  the  brave; 

And  to  the  saner  mind 

We  rather  seem  the  dead  that  stayed  behind. 
Blow,  trumpets,  all  your  exultations  blow ! 
For  never  shall  their  aureoled  presence  lack: 
I  see  them  muster  in  a  gleaming  row, 
With  ever-youthful  brows  that  nobler  show; 
We  find  in  our  dull  road  their  shining  track; 

In  every  nobler  mood 
We  feel  the  orient  of  their  spirit  glow, 
Part  of  our  life's  unalterable  good, 
Of  all  our  saintlier  aspiration; 

They  come  transfigured  back, 
Secure  from  change  in  their  high-hearted  ways, 
Beautiful  evermore,  and  with  the  rays 
Of  morn  on  their  white  Shields  of  Expectation! 


But  is  there  hope  to  save 
Even  this  ethereal  essence  from  the  grave? 
What  ever  'scaped  Oblivion's  subtle  wrong 
Save  a  few  clarion  names,  or  golden  threads  of  song? 

Before  my  musing  eye 
The  mighty  ones  of  old  sweep  by, 
Disvoiced  now  and  insubstantial  things, 
As  noisy  once  as  we;  poor  ghosts  of  kings, 
Shadows  of  empire  wholly  gone  to  dust, 
And  many  races,  nameless  long  ago, 
To  darkness  driven  by  that  imperious  gust 
Of  ever-rushing  Time  that  here  doth  blow: 
O  visionary  world,  condition  strange, 
Where  naught  abiding  is  but  only  Change, 


78  JAMES   RUSSELL   LOWELL 

Where  the  deep-bolted  stars  themselves  still  shift 

and  range! 

Shall  we  to  more  continuance  make  pretence? 
Renown  builds  tombs;  a  life-estate  is  Wit; 

And,  bit  by  bit, 

The  cunning  years  steal  all  from  us  but  woe; 
Leaves  are  we,  whose  decays  no  harvest  sow. 

But,  when  we  vanish  hence, 
Shall  they  lie  forceless  in  the  dark  below, 
Save  to  make  green  their  little  length  of  sods, 
Or  deepen  pansies  for  a  year  or  two, 
Who  now  to  us  are  shining-sweet  as  gods? 
Was  dying  all  they  had  the  skill  to  do? 
That  were  not  fruitless :  but  the  Soul  resents 
Such  short-lived  service,  as  if  blind  events 
Ruled  without  her,  or  earth  could  so  endure; 
She  claims  a  more  divine  investiture 
Of  longer  tenure  than  Fame's  airy  rents; 
Whate'er  she  touches  doth  her  nature  share; 
Her  inspiration  haunts  the  ennobled  air, 

Gives  eyes  to  mountains  blind, 
Ears  to  the  deaf  earth,  voices  to  the  wind, 
And  her  clear  trump  sings  succor  everywhere 
By  lonely  bivouacs  to  the  wakeful  mind; 
For  soul  inherits  all  that  soul  could  dare: 

Yea,  Manhood  hath  a  wider  span 
And  larger  privilege  of  life  than  man. 
The  single  deed,  the  private  sacrifice, 
So  radiant  now  through  proudly-hidden  tears, 
Is  covered  up  erelong  from  mortal  eyes 
With  thoughtless  drift  of  the  deciduous  years; 
But  that  high  privilege  that  makes  all  men  peers, 
That  leap  of  heart  whereby  a  people  rise 


COMMEMORATION  ODE  79 

Up  to  a  noble  anger's  height, 
And,  flamed  on  by  tne  Fates,  not  shrink,  but  grow 

more  bright, 

That  swift  validity  in  noble  veins, 
Of  choosing  danger  and  disdaining  shame, 

Of  being  set  on  flame 
By  the  pure  fire  that  flies  all  contact  base 
But  wraps  its  chosen  with  angelic  might, 

These  are  imperishable  gains, 
Sure  as  the  sun,  medicinal  as  light, 
These  hold  great  futures  in  their  lusty  reins 
And  certify  to  earth  a  new  imperial  race. 


Who  now  shall  sneer? 

Who  dare  again  to  say  we  trace 

Our  lines  to  a  plebeian  race? 

Roundhead  and  Cavalier! 

Dumb  are  those  names  erewhile  in  battle  loud; 
Dream-footed  as  the  shadow  of  a  cloud, 

They  flit  across  the  ear: 
That  is  best  blood  that  hath  most  iron  in  't 
To  edge  resolve  with,  pouring  without  stint 
For  what  makes  manhood  dear. 

Tell  us  not  of  Plantagenets, 
Hapsburgs,  and  Guelfs,  whose  thin  bloods  crawl 
Down  from  some  victor  in  a  border-brawl! 

How  poor  their  outworn  coronets, 
Matched  with  one  leaf  of  that  plain  civic  wreath 
Our  brave  for  honor's  blazon  shall  bequeath, 
Through  whose  desert  a  rescued  Nation  sets 
Her  heel  on  treason,  and  the  trumpet  hears 
Shout  victory,  tingling  Europe's  sullen  ears 
With  vain  resentments  and  more  vain  regrets! 


80  JAMES   RUSSELL   LOWELL 


Not  in  anger,  not  in  pride, 
Pure  from  passion's  mixture  rude 
Ever  to  base  earth  allied, 
But  with  far-heard  gratitude, 
Still  with  heart  and  voice  renewed, 
'fo  heroes  living  and  dear  martyrs  dead, 
The  strain  should  close  that  consecrates  our  brave. 
Lift  the  heart  and  lift  the  head! 
Lofty  be  its  mood  and  grave, 
Not  without  a  martial  ring, 
Not  without  a  prouder  tread 
And  a  peal  of  exultation: 
Little  right  has  he  to  sing 
Through  whose  heart  in  such  an  hour 
Beats  no  march  of  conscious  power, 
Sweeps  no  tumult  of  elation! 
'T  is  no  Man  we  celebrate, 
By  his  country's  victories  great, 
A  hero  half,  and  half  the  whim  of  Fate, 

But  the  pith  and  marrow  of  a  Nation 
Drawing  force  from  all  her  men, 
Highest,  humblest,  weakest,  all, 
For  her  time  of  need,  and  then 
Pulsing  it  again  through  them, 
Till  the  basest  can  no  longer  cower, 
Feeling  his  soul  spring  up  divinely  tall, 
Touched  but  in  passing  by  her  mantle-hem. 
Come  back,  then,  noble  pride,  for  't  is  her  doweri 
How  could  poet  ever  tower, 
If  his  passions,  hopes,  and  fears, 
If  his  triumphs  and  his  tears, 
Kept  not  measure  with  his  people? 


COMMEMORATION   ODE  81 

Boom,  cannon,  boom  to  all  the  winds  and  waves! 
Clash  out,  glad  bells,  from  every  rocking  steeple! 
Banners,  a-dance  with  triumph,  bend  your  staves! 

And  from  every  mountain-peak 
Let  beacon-fire  to  answering  beacon  speak, 
Katahdin  tell  Monadnock,  Whiteface  he, 
And  so  leap  on  in  light  from  sea  to  sea, 

Till  the  glad  news  be  sent 

Across  a  kindling  continent, 

Making  earth  feel  more  firm  and  air  breathe  braver: 
"Be  proud !  for  she  is  saved,  and  all  have  helped  to  save 

her! 

She  that  lifts  up  the  manhood  of  the  poor, 
She  of  the  open  soul  and  open  door, 
With  room  about  her  hearth  for  all  mankind! 
The  fire  is  dreadful  in  her  eyes  no  more; 
From  her  bold  front  the  helm  she  doth  unbind, 
Sends  all  her  handmaid  armies  back  to  spin, 
And  bids  her  navies,  that  so  lately  hurled 
Their  crashing  battle,  hold  their  thunders  in, 
Swimming  like  birds  of  calm  along  the  unharmful 

shore. 

No  challenge  sends  she  to  the  elder  world, 
That  looked  askance  and  hated ;  a  light  scorn 
Plays  o'er  her  mouth,  as  round  her  mighty  knees 
She  calls  her  children  back,  and  waits  the  morn 
^)f  nobler  day,  enthroned  between  her  subject  seas." 


Bow  down,  dear  Land,  for  thou  hast  found  release! 

Thy  God,  in  these  distempered  days, 
Hath  taught  thee  the  sure  wisdom  of  His  ways, 
And  through  thine  enemies  hath  wrought  thy  peace; 


82  JAMES   RUSSELL  LOWELL 

Bow  down  in  prayer  and  praise! 
No  poorest  in  thy  borders  but  may  now 
Lift  to  the  juster  skies  a  man's  enfranchised  brow. 
O  Beautiful!  my  Country!  ours  once  more! 
Smoothing  thy  gold  of  war-dishevelled  hair 
O'er  such  sweet  brows  as  never  other  wore, 

And  letting  thy  set  lips, 

Freed  from  wrath's  pale  eclipse, 
The  rosy  edges  of  their  smile  lay  bare, 
What  words  divine  of  lover  or  of  poet 
Could  tell  our  love  and  make  thee  know  it, 
Among  the  Nations  bright  beyond  compare? 

What  were  our  lives  without  thee? 

What  all  our  lives  to  save  thee? 

We  reck  not  what  we  gave  thee; 

We  will  not  dare  to  doubt  thee, 
But  ask  whatever  else,  and  we  will  dare! 

James  Russell  Lowell 


AUSPEX 

MY  heart,  I  cannot  still  it, 
Nest  that  had  song-birds  in  it; 
And  when  the  last  shall  go, 
The  dreary  days  to  fill  it, 
Instead  of  lark  or  linnet, 
Shall  whirl  dead  leaves  and  snow. 

Had  they  been  swallows  only, 
Without  the  passion  stronger 
That  skyward  longs  and  sings,  — 
Woe  's  me,  I  shall  be  lonely 


SONG  83 

When  I  can  feel  no  longer 
The  impatience  of  their  wings! 

A  moment,  sweet  delusion, 
Like  birds  the  brown  leaves  hover; 
But  it  will  not  be  long 
Before  their  wild  confusion 
Fall  wavering  down  to  cover 
The  poet  and  his  song. 

James  Russell  LowelL 

SONG 

O  BIRD,  thou  dartest  to  the  sun, 

When  morning  beams  first  spring, 

And  I,  like  thee,  would  swiftly  run; 

As  sweetly  would  I  sing. 

Thy  burning  heart  doth  draw  thee  up 

Unto  the  source  of  fire; 

Thou  drinkest  from  its  glowing  cup 

And  quenchest  thy  desire. 

0  dew,  thou  droppest  soft  below, 
And  pearl est  all  the  ground- 

Yet,  when  the  morning  comes,  I  know 
Thou  never  canst  be  found. 

1  would  like  thine  had  been  my  birth; 
Then  I,  without  a  sigh, 

Might  sleep  the  night  through  on  the  earth 
To  waken  in  the  sky. 

O  clouds,  ye  little  tender  sheep, 
Pastured  in  fields  of  blue, 


84        JOSIAH   GILBERT   HOLLAND 

While  moon  and  stars  your  fold  can  keep 

And  gently  shepherd  you, 

Let  me,  too,  follow  in  the  train 

That  flocks  across  the  night, 

Or  lingers  on  the  open  plain 

With  new-shorn  fleeces  white. 

0  singing  winds,  that  wander  far, 
Yet  always  seem  at  home, 

And  freely  play  'twixt  star  and  star 
Along  the  bending  dome, 

1  often  listen  to  your  song, 
Yet  never  hear  you  say 

One  word  of  all  the  happy  worlds 
That  sing  so  far  away. 

For  they  are  free,  ye  all  are  free, 

And  bird,  and  dew,  and  light, 

Can  dart  upon  the  azure  sea 

And  leave  me  to  my  night; 

Oh,  would  like  theirs  had  been  my  birth, 

Then  I,  without  a  sigh, 

Might  sleep  this  night  through  on  the  earth 

To  waken  in  the  sky. 

Maria  White  Lowell 


GRADATIM 

HEAVEN  is  not  reached  at  a  single  bound; 

But  we  build  the  ladder  by  which  we  rise 
From  the  lowly  earth  to  the  vaulted  skies, 

And  we  mount  to  its  summit  round  by  round. 


GRADATIM  85 


I  count  this  thing  to  be  grandly  true: 

That  a  noble  deed  is  a  step  toward  God, 
Lifting  the  soul  from  the  common  clod 

To  a  purer  air  and  a  broader  view. 

We  rise  by  the  things  that  are  under  feet; 

By  what  we  have  mastered  of  good  and  gain; 

By  the  pride  deposed  and  the  passion  slain, 
And  the  vanquished  ills  that  we  hourly  meet. 

We  hope,  we  aspire,  we  resolve,  we  trust, 

When  the  morning  calls  us  to  life  and  light, 
But  our  hearts  grow  weary,  and,  ere  the  night, 

Our  lives  are  trailing  the  sordid  dust. 

We  hope,  we  resolve,  we  aspire,  we  pray, 

And  we  think  that  we  mount  the  air  on  wings 
Beyond  the  recall  of  sensual  things, 

While  our  feet  still  cling  to  the  heavy  day. 

WTiugs  for  the  angels,  but  feet  for  men! 

We  may  borrow  the  wings  to  find  the  way  — 
We  may  hope,  and  resolve,  and  aspire,  and  pray ; 

But  our  feet  must  rise,  or  we  fall  again. 

Only  in  dreams  is  a  ladder  thrown 

From  the  weary  earth  to  the  sapphire  walls; 

But  the  dreams  depart,  and  the  vision  falls, 
A.nd  the  sleeper  wakes  on  his  pillow  of  stone. 

Heaven  is  not  reached  at  a  single  bound; 

But  we  build  the  ladder  by  which  we  rise 
From  the  lowly  earth  to  the  vaulted  skies, 

And  we  mount  to  its  summit,  round  by  round. 

Josiah  Gilbert  Holland. 


96        WILLIAM   WETMORE   STORY 

PRAXITELES  AND  PHRYNE 

A  THOUSAND  silent  years  ago, 

The  twilight  faint  and  pale 
Was  drawing  o'er  the  sunset  glo\f 

Its  soft  and  shadowy  veil; 

When  from  his  work  the  Sculptor  stayed 

His  hand,  and,  turned  to  one 
Who  stood  beside  him,  half  in  shade, 

Said,  with  a  sigh,  "'T  is  done. 

"Thus  much  is  saved  from  chance  and  change, 

That  waits  for  me  and  thee; 
Thus  much  —  how  little !  —  from  the  range 
Of  Death  and  Destiny. 

"Phryne,  thy  human  lips  shall  pale, 

Thy  rounded  limbs  decay,  — 
Nor  love  nor  prayers  can  aught  avail 
To  bid  thy  beauty  stay; 

"But  there  thy  smile  for  centuries 

On  marble  lips  shall  live,  — 
For  Art  can  grant  what  Love  denies, 
And  fix  the  fugitive. 

"Sad  thought!  nor  age  nor  death  shall  fade 

The  youth  of  this  cold  bust; 
When  this  quick  brain  and  hand  that  made, 
And  thou  and  I  are  dust! 

"When  all  our  hopes  and  fears  are  dead, 
And  both  our  hearts  are  cold, 


ON   A   BUST   OF   DANTE  87 

And  love  is  like  a  tune  that's  played, 
And  life  a  tale  that's  told, 

^This  senseless  stone,  so  coldly  fair, 

That  love  nor  life  can  warm, 
The  same  enchanting  look  shall  wear,    , 
The  same  enchanting  form. 

"Its  peace  no  sorrow  shall  destroy; 

Its  beauty  age  shall  spare 

The  bitterness  of  vanished  joy, 

The  wearing  waste  of  care. 

"And  there  upon  that  silent  face 

Shall  unborn  ages  see 
Perennial  youth,  perennial  grace, 
And  sealed  serenity. 

"And  strangers,  when  we  steep  in  peace, 

Shall  say,  not  quite  unmoved, 
'So  smiled  upon  Praxiteles 

The  Phryne  whom  he  loved!'" 

William  Wetmore  Story. 

ON  A  BUST  OF  DANTE 

SEE,  from  this  counterfeit  of  him 
Whom  Arno  shall  remember  long, 
How  stern  of  lineament,  how  grim, 
The  father  was  of  Tuscan  song : 
There  but  the  burning  sense  of  wrong, 
Perpetual  care,  and  scorn,  abide  — 
Small  friendship  for  the  lordly  throng; 
Distrust  of  all  the  world  beside. 


88        THOMAS   WILLIAM   PARSONS 

Faithful  if  this  wan  image  be, 

No  dream  his  life  was  —  but  a  fight; 

Could  any  Beatrice  see 

A  lover  in  that  anchorite? 

To  that  cold  Ghibelline's  gloomy  sight 

Who  could  have  guessed  the  visions  came 

Of  Beauty,  veiled  with  heavenly  light, 

In  circles  of  eternal  flame? 

The  lips  as  Cumae's  cavern  close, 
The  cheeks  with  fast  and  sorrow  thin, 
The  rigid  front,  almost  morose, 
But  for  the  patient  hope  within, 
Declare  a  life  whose  course  hath  been 
Unsullied  still,  though  still  severe, 
Which,  through  the  wavering  days  of  sin, 
Kept  itself  icy-chaste  and  clear. 

Not  wholly  such  his  haggard  look 
When  wandering  once,  forlorn,  he  strayed, 
With  no  companion  save  his  book, 
To  Corvo's  hushed  monastic  shade; 
Where,  as  the  Benedictine  laid 
His  palm  upon  the  convent's  guest, 
The  single  boon  for  which  he  prayed 
Was  peace,  that  pilgrim's  one  request. 

Peace  dwells  not  here  —  this  rugged  face 

Betrays  no  spirit  of  repose; 

The  sullen  warrior  sole  we  trace, 

The  marble  man  of  many  woes. 

Such  was  his  mien  when  first  arose 

The  thought  of  that  strange  tale  divine  — 


DIRGE  89 

When  hell  he  peopled  with  his  foes, 
Dread  scourge  of  many  a  guilty  line. 

War  to  the  last  he  waged  with  all 
The  tyrant  canker-worms  of  earth; 
Baron  and  duke,  in  hold  and  hall, 
Cursed  the  dark  hour  that  gave  him  birth; 
He  used  Rome's  harlot  for  his  mirth; 
Plucked  bare  hypocrisy  and  crime; 
But  valiant  souls  of  knightly  worth 
Transmitted  to  the  rolls  of  Time. 

O  Time!  whose  verdicts  mock  our  own, 
The  only  righteous  judge  art  thou; 
That  poor,  old  exile,  sad  and  lone, 
Is  Latium's  other  Virgil  now. 
Before  his  name  the  nations  bow; 
His  words  are  parcel  of  mankind, 
Deep  in  whose  hearts,  as  on  his  brow, 
The  marks  have  sunk  of  Dante's  mind. 

Thomaq  William  Parsons, 

DIRGE 

FOR   ONE   WHO   FELL   IN    BATTLE 

ROOM  for  a  soldier!  lay  him  in  the  clover; 
He  loved  the  fields,  and  they  shall  be  his  cover; 
Make  his  mound  with  hers  who  called  him  once  her 
lover: 

Where  the  rain  may  rain  upon  it, 

Where  the  sun  may  shine  upon  it, 

Where  the  lamb  hath  lain  upon  it, 

And  the  bee  will  dine  upon  it. 


90       THOMAS   WILLIAM   PARSONS 

Bear  him  to  no  dismal  tomb  under  city  churches; 
Take  him  to  the  fragrant  fields,  by  the  silver  birches, 
Where  the  whip-poor-will   shall  mourn,   where    the 
oriole  perches: 

Make  his  mound  with  sunshine  on  it, 

Where  the  bee  will  dine  upon  it, 

Where  the  lamb  hath  lain  upon  it, 

And  the  rain  will  rain  upon  it. 

Busy  as  the  bee  was  he,  and  his  rest  should  be  the 

clover; 
Gentle  as  the  lamb  was  he,  and  the  fern  should  be  his 

cover; 

Fern  and  rosemary  shall  grow  my  soldier's  pillow  over: 
Where  the  rain  may  rain  upon  it, 
Where  the  sun  may  shine  upon  it, 
Where  the  lamb  hath  lain  upon  it, 
And  the  bee  will  dine  upon  it. 

Sunshine  in  his  heart,  the  rain  would  come  full  often 
Out  of  those  tender  eyes  which  evermore  did  soften : 
He  never  could  look  cold  till  we  saw  him  in  his  coffin. 

Make  his  mound  with  sunshine  on  it, 

Plant  the  lordly  pine  upon  it, 

Where  the  moon  may  stream  upon  it, 

And  memory  shall  dream  upon  it. 

"Captain  or  Colonel,"  —  whatever  invocation 
Suit  our  hymn  the  best,  no  matter  for  thy  station, — 
On  thy  grave  the  rain  shall  fall  from  the  eyes  of  & 
mighty  nation! 

Long  as  the  sun  doth  shine  upon  it 

Shall  glow  the  goodly  pine  upon  it, 


THE   BIVOUAC   OF  THE   DEAD      91 

Long  as  the  stars  do  gleam  upon  it 
Shall  memory  come  to  dream  upon  it. 

Thomas  William  Parsons* 


THE  BIVOUAC  OF  THE  DEAD 

THE  muffled  drum's  sad  roll  has  beat 

The  soldier's  last  tattoo; 
No  more  on  Life's  parade  shall  meet 

That  brave  and  fallen  few. 
On  Fame's  eternal  camping-ground 

Their  silent  tents  are  spread, 
And  Glory  guards,  with  solemn  round, 

The  bivouac  of  the  dead. 

No  rumor  of  the  foe's  advance 

Now  swells  upon  the  wind; 
No  troubled  thought  at  midnight  haunts 

Of  loved  ones  left  behind; 
No  vision  of  the  morrow's  strife 

The  warrior's  dieam  alarms; 
No  braying  horn  nor  screaming  fife 

At  dawn  shall  call  to  arms. 

Their  shivered  swords  are  red  with  rust; 

Their  plumed  heads  are  bowed ; 
Their  haughty  banner,  trailed  in  dust, 

Is  now  their  martial  shroud. 
And  plenteous  funeral  tears  have  washed 

The  red  stains  from  each  brow, 
And  the  proud  forms,  by  battle  gashed, 

Are  free  from  anguish  now. 


92  THEODORE   O'HARA 

The  neighing  troop,  the  flashing  blade, 

The  bugle's  stirring  blast, 
The  charge,  the  dreadful  cannonade, 

The  din  and  shout,  are  past ; 
Nor  war's  wild  note,  nor  glory's  peal, 

Shall  thrill  with  fierce  delight 
Those  breasts  that  nevermore  may  feel 

The  rapture  of  the  fight. 

Like  the  fierce  northern  hurricane 

That  sweeps  his  great  plateau, 
Flushed  with  the  triumph  yet  to  gain, 

Came  down  the  serried  foe. 
Who  heard  the  thunder  of  the  fray 

Break  o'er  the  field  beneath, 
Knew  well  the  watchword  of  that* day 

Was  "Victory  or  Death." 

Long  had  the  doubtful  conflict  raged 

O'er  all  that  stricken  plain, 
For  never  fiercer  fight  had  waged 

The  vengeful  blood  of  Spain; 
And  still  the  storm  of  battle  blew, 

Still  swelled  the  gory  tide; 
Not  long,  our  stout  old  chieftain  knew. 

Such  odds  his  strength  could  bide. 

T  was  in  that  hour  his  stern  command 
Called  to  a  martyr's  grave 

The  flower  of  his  beloved  land. 
The  nation's  flag  to  save. 

By  rivers  of  their  fathers'  gore 
His  first-born  laurels  grew, 


THE   BIVOUAC   OF  THE   DEAD      93 

And  well  he  deemed  the  sons  would  pour 
Their  lives  for  glory  too. 

Full  many  a  norther's  breath  has  swept 

O'er  Angostura's  plain, 
And  long  the  pitying  sky  has  wept 

Above  its  mouldered  slain. 
The  raven's  scream  or  eagle's  flight, 

Or  shepherd's  pensive  lay, 
Alone  awakes  each  sullen  height 

That  frowned  o'er  that  dread  fray. 

Sons  of  the  dark  and  bloody  ground, 

Ye  must  not  slumber  there, 
Where  stranger  steps  and  tongues  resound 

Along  the  heedless  air. 
Your  own  proud  land's  heroic  soil 

Shall  be  your  fitter  grave; 
She  claims  from  war  his  richest  spoil  — 

The  ashes  of  her  brave. 

Thus  'neath  their  parent  turf  they  rest, 

Far  from  the  gory  field, 
Borne  to  a  Spartan  mother's  breast 

On  many  a  bloody  shield; 
The  sunshine  of  their  native  sky 

Smiles  sadly  on  them  here, 
And  kindred  eyes  and  hearts  watch  by 

The  heroes'  sepulcher. 

Rest  on,  embalmed  and  sainted  dead! 

Dear  as  the  blood  ye  gave; 
No  impious  footstep  here  shall  tread 

The  herbage  of  your  grave; 


94  GEORGE   HENRY   BOKER 

Nor  shall  your  story  be  forgot, 

While  Fame  her  record  keeps, 
Or  Honor  points  the  hallowed  spot 

Where  Valor  proudly  sleeps. 

Yon  marble  minstrel's  voiceless  stone 

In  deathless  song  shall  tell, 
When  many  a  vanished  age  hath  flown, 

The  story  how  ye  fell; 
Nor  wreck,  nor  change,  nor  winter's  blight, 

Nor  Time's  remorseless  doom, 
Shall  dim  one  ray  of  glory's  light 

That  gilds  your  deathless  tomb. 

Theodore  0'Harae 

DIRGE  FOR  A  SOLDIER 

CLOSE  his  eyes;  his  work  is  done! 

What  to  him  is  friend  or  foeman, 
Rise  of  moon,  or  set  of  sun, 

Hand  of  man,  or  kiss  of  woman? 
Lay  him  low,  lay  him  low, 
In  the  clover  or  the  snow ! 
What  cares  he?  he  cannot  know: 
Lay  him  low! 

As  man  may,  he  fought  his  fight, 

Proved  his  truth  by  his  endeavor; 
Let  him  sleep  in  solemn  night, 
Sleep  forever  and  forever. 
Lay  him  low,  lay  him  low, 
In  the  clover  or  the  snow ! 
Wrhat  cares  he?  he  cannot  knows 
Lay  him  low! 


BATTLE-HYMN  OF  THE  REPUBLIC     95 

Fold  him  in  his  country's  stars, 

Roll  the  drum  and  fire  the  volley! 
What  to  him  are  all  our  wars, 

What  but  death  —  bemocking  folly? 
Lay  him  low,  lay  him  low, 
In  the  clover  or  the  snow ! 
What  cares  he?  he  cannot  know: 
Lay  him  low ! 

Leave  him  to  God's  watching  eye; 

Trust  him  to  the  hand  that  made  him. 
Mortal  love  weeps  idly  by : 

God  alone  has  power  to  aid  him. 
Lay  him  low,  lay  him  low, 
In  the  clover  or  the  snow ! 
What  cares  he?  he  cannot  know: 
Lay  him  low ! 

George  Henry  Boker. 

THE  BATTLE-HYMN  OF  THE 
REPUBLIC 

MINE  eyes  have  seen  the  glory  of  the  coming  of  the 

Lord; 
He  is  trampling  out  the  vintage  where  the  grapes  of 

wrath  are  stored; 
He  hath  loosed  the  fateful  lightning  of  His  terrible 

swift  sword; 

His  truth  is  marching  on. 

I  have  seen  Him  in  the  watch-fires  of  a  hundred  cir- 
cling camps; 

They  have  builded  Him  an  altar  in  the  evening  dews 
and  damps: 


96        THOMAS  BUCHANAN   READ 

I  can  read  His  righteous  sentence  by  the  dim  and  flar- 
ing lamps; 

His  day  is  marching  on. 

I  have  read  a  fiery  gospel,  writ  in  burnished  rows  of 

steel: 
"As  ye  deal  with  my  contemners,  so  with  you  my 

grace  shall  deal; 
Let  the  Hero,  born  of  woman,  crush  the  serpent  with 

his  heel, 

Since  God  is  marching  on." 

He  has  sounded  forth  the  trumpet  that  shall  never 
call  retreat; 

He  is  sifting  out  the  hearts  of  men  before  His  judg- 
ment-seat: 

Oh,  be  swift,  my  soul,  to  answer  Him!  be  jubilant,  my 
feet! 

Our  God  is  marching  on. 

In  the  beauty  of  the  lilies  Christ  was  born  across  th<" 

sea, 

With  a  glory  in  His  bosom  that  transfigures  you  and  me : 
As  He  died  to  make  men  holy,  let  us  die  to  make  men 
free, 

While  God  is  marching  on. 

Julia  Ward  Howe. 

THE  BRAVE  AT  HOME 

THE  maid  who  binds  her  warrior's  sash 
With  smile  that  well  her  pain  dissembles, 

The  while  beneath  her  drooping  lash 

One  starry  tear-drop  hangs  and  trembles, 


DRIFTING  9? 

Though  Heaven  alone  records  the  tear, 
And  Fame  shall  never  know  her  story,  — 

Her  heart  has  shed  a  drop  as  dear 
As  e'er  bedewed  the  field  of  glory. 

The  wife  who  girds  her  husband's  sword, 

Mid  little  ones  who  weep  or  wonder, 
And  bravely  speaks  the  cheering  word, 

What  though  her  heart  be  rent  asunder, 
Doomed  nightly  in  her  dreams  to  hear 

The  bolts  of  death  around  him  rattle,  — 
Hath  shed  as  sacred  blood  as  e'er 

Was  poured  upon  the  field  of  battle  I 

The  mother  who  conceals  her  grieic 

While  to  her  breast  her  son  she  presses. 
Then  breathes  a  few  brave  words  and  brief, 

Kissing  the  patriot  brow  she  blesses, 
With  no  one  but  her  secret  God 

To  know  the  pain  that  weighs  upon  her,  — 
Sheds  holy  blood  as  e'er  the  sod 

Received  on  Freedom's  field  of  honor! 

Thomas  Buchanan  Read, 


DRIFTING 

MY  soul  to-day 

Is  far  away, 
Sailing  the  Vesuvian  Bay; 

My  winged  boat, 

A  bird  afloat, 
Swings  round  the  purple  peaks  remote:  — ' 


98         THOMAS   BUCHANAN   READ 

Round  purple  peaks 

It  sails,  and  seeks 
Blue  inlets  and  their  crystal  creeks, 

Where  high  rocks  throw, 

Through  deeps  below, 
A  duplicated  golden  glow. 

Far,  vague,  and  dim, 
The  mountains  swim; 

While  on  Vesuvius'  misty  brim, 
With  outstretched  hands, 
The  gray  smoke  stands 

O'erlooking  the  volcanic  lands. 

Here  Ischia  smiles 

O'er  liquid  miles; 
And  yonder,  bluest  of  the  isles, 

Calm  Capri  waits, 

Her  sapphire  gates 
Beguiling  to  her  bright  estates. 

I  heed  not  if 

My  rippling  skiff 
Float  swift  or  slow  from  cliff  to  cliff; 

With  dreamful  eyes 

My  spirit  lies 
Under  the  walls  of  Paradise. 

Under  the  walls 

Where  swells  and  falls 
The  Bay's  deep  breast  at  intervals. 

At  peace  I  lie, 

Blown  softly  by, 
A  cloud  upon  this  liquid  sky. 


DRIFTING 


The  day,  so  mild, 

Is  Heaven's  own  child, 
With  Earth  and  Ocean  reconciled; 

The  airs  I  feel 

Around  me  steal 
Are  murmuring  to  the  murmuring  keeL 

Over  the  rail 

My  hand  I  trail 
Within  the  shadow  of  the  sail, 

A  joy  intense, 

The  cooling  sense 
Glides  down  my  drowsy  indolence. 

With  dreamful  eyes 

My  spirit  lies 
Where  Summer  sings  and  never  dies,  — 

O'erveiled  with  vines 

She  glows  and  shines 
Among  her  future  oil  and  wines. 

Her  children,  hid 

The  cliffs  amid, 
Are  gamboling  with  the  gamboling  kid; 

Or  down  the  walls, 

With  tipsy  calls, 
Laugh  on  the  rocks  like  waterfalls. 

The  fisher's  child, 

With  tresses  wild, 
Unto  the  smooth,  bright  sand  beguiled, 

With  glowing  lips 

Sings  as  she  skips, 
Or  gazes  at  the  far-off  ships. 


100   THOMAS  BUCHANAN  READ 

Yon  deep  bark  goes 

Where  traffic  blows, 
From  lands  of  sun  to  lands  of  snows;  — 

This  happier  one. 

Its  course  is  run 
From  lands  of  snow  to  lands  of  sun. 

O  happy  ship, 

To  rise  and  dip, 
With  the  blue  crystal  at  your  lip ! 

O  happy  crew, 

My  heart  with  you 
Sails,  and  sails,  and  sings  anew! 

No  more,  no  more 

The  worldly  shore 
Upbraids  me  with  its  loud  uproar! 

With  dreamful  eyes 

My  spirit  lies 
Under  the  walls  of  Paradise ! 

Thomas  Buchanan  Head. 

THE  CLOSING  SCENE 

WITHIN  his  sober  realm  of  leafless  trees, 
The  russet  year  inhaled  the  dreamy  air; 

Like  some  tanned  reaper  in  his  hour  of  ease, 
When  all  the  fields  are  lying  brown  and  bare. 

The  gray  barns  looking  from  their  hazy  hills 
O'er  the  dim  waters  widening  in  the  vales, 

Sent  down  the  air  a  greeting  to  the  mills 
On  the  dull  thunder  of  alternate  flails. 


THE    CLOSING  SCENE  101 

All  sights  were  mellowed  and  all  sounds  subdued, 
The  hills  seemed  farther  and  the  streams  sang  low* 

As  in  a  dream  the  distant  woodmai .  hewed 
His  winter  log  with  many  a  muffled  blow. 

.£he  embattled  forests,  erewhile  armed  in  gold, 
Their  banners  bright  with  every  martial  hue, 

Now  stood,  like  some  sad,  beaten  host  of  old, 
Withdrawn  afar  in  Time's  remotest  blue. 

On  slumbrous  wings  the  vulture  held  his  flight; 

The   dove   scarce   heard   his   sighing   mate's  com- 
plaint, 
And  like  a  star  slow  drowning  in  the  light, 

The  village  church-vane  seemed  to  pale  and  faint. 

The  sentinel-cock  upon  the  hillside  crew,  — 
Crew  thrice,  and  all  was  stiller  than  before,  — 

Silent  till  some  replying  warder  blew 

His  alien  horn,  and  then  was  heard  no  more. 

Where  erst  the  jay,  within  the  elm's  tall  crest, 

Made  garrulous  trouble  round  her  unfledged  young, 

And  where  the  oriole  hung  her  swaying  nest, 
By  every  light  wind  like  a  censer  swung  — 

^Vhere  sang  the  noisy  masons  of  the  eaves, 
The  busy  swallows,  circling  ever  near, 

Foreboding,  as  the  rustic  mind  believes, 
An  early  harvest  and  a  plenteous  year;  — 

Where  every  bird  which  charmed  the  vernal  feast. 
Shook  the  sweet  slumber  from  its  wings  at  morn, 


102       THOMAS   BUCHANAN    READ 

To  warn  the  reaper  of  the  rosy  east,  — 
All  now  was  songless,  empty,  and  forlorn. 

Alone  from  out  the  stubble  piped  the  quail, 

And   croaked   the  crow   through  all   the  dreamy 
gloom; 

Alone  the  pheasant,  drumming  in  the  vale, 
Made  echo  to  the  distant  cottage  loom. 

There  was  no  bud,  no  bloom  upon  the  bowers; 

The  spiders  wove  their  thin  shrouds  night  by  night; 
The  thistle-down,  the  only  ghost  of  flowers, 

Sailed  slowly  by,  passed  noiseless  out  of  sight. 

Amid  all  this,  in  this  most  cheerless  air. 

And  where  the  woodbine  shed  upon  the  porch 

Its  crimson  leaves,  as  if  the  Year  stood  there 
Firing  the  floor  with  his  inverted  torch; 

Amid  all  this,  the  center  of  the  scene, 

The  white-haired  matron,  with  monotonous  tr«ad. 
Plied  the  swift  wheel,  and  with  her  joyless  mien, 

Sat,  like  a  Fate,  and  watched  the  flying  thread. 

She  had  known  Sorrow,  —  he  had  walked  with  her, 
Oft  supped,  and  broke  the  bitter  ashen  crust; 

And  in  the  dead  leaves  still  she  heard  the  stir 
Of  his  black  mantle  trailing  in  the  dust. 

While  yet  her  cheek  was  bright  with  summer  bloom, 
Her  country  summoned  and  she  gave  her  all; 

And  twice  War  bowed  to  her  his  sable  plume,  — 
Re-gave  the  sword*  to  rust  upon  the  waJJ. 


THE   LAST   INVOCATION  108 

Re-gave  the  swords,  —  but  not  the  hand  that  drew 
And  struck  for  Liberty  its  dying  blow, 

Nor  him  who,  to  his  sire  and  country  true, 
Fell  'mid  the  ranks  of  the  invading  foe. 

Long,  but  not  loud,  the  droning  wheel  went  on, 
Like  the  low  murmur  of  a  hive  at  noon; 

Long,  but  not  loud,  the  memory  of  the  gone 

Breathed  through  her  lips  a  sad  and  tremulous  tune. 

At  last  the  thread  was    snapped,  —  her  head  was 

bowed; 

Life  dropped  the  distaff  through  his  hands  serene;  — 
And  loving  neighbors  smoothed  her  careful  shroud, 
While  Death  and  Winter  closed  the  autumn  scene. 
Thomas  Buchanan  Read. 

THE  LAST  INVOCATION 

AT  the  last,  tenderly, 

From  the  walls  of  the  powerful,  fortressed  house, 

From  the  clasp  of  the  knitted  locks  —  from  the  keep 

of  the  well -closed  doors, 
Let  me  be  wafted. 

Let  me  glide  noiselessly  forth; 

With  the  key  of  softness  unlock  the  locks  —  with  a 

whisper 
Set  ope  the  doors,  O  Soul! 

Tenderly!  be  not  impatient! 
(Strong  is  your  hold,  O  mortal  flesh! 
Strong  is  your  hold,  O  love.) 

Walt  Whitman. 


104  WALT    WHITMAN 

OUT  OF  THE  CRADLE  ENDLESSLY 
ROCKING 

OUT  of  the  cradle  endlessly  rocking, 

Out  of  the  mocking-bird's  throat,  the  musical  shuttle. 

Out  of  the  Ninth-month  midnight, 

Over  the  sterile  sands  and  the  fields  beyond,  where 
the  child  leaving  his  bed  wandered  alone,  bare- 
headed, barefoot, 

Down  from  the  showered  halo, 

Up  from  the  mystic  play  of  shadows  twining  and  twist  ^ 
ing  as  if  they  were  alive, 

Out  from  the  patches  of  briers  and  blackberries, 

From  the  memories  of  the  bird  that  chanted  to  me, 

From  your  memories,  sad  brother,  from  the  fitful 
risings  and  fallings  I  heard, 

From  under  that  yellow  half-moon  late-risen  and 
swollen  as  if  with  tears, 

From  those  beginning  notes  of  yearning  and  love  there 
in  the  mist, 

From  the  thousand  responses  of  my  heart  never  to  cease, 

From  the  myriad  thence-aroused  words, 

From  the  word  stronger  and  more  delicious  than  any. 

From  such  as  now  they  start  the  scene  revisiting, 

As  a  flock,  twittering,  rising,  or  overhead  passing. 

Borne  hither,  ere  all  eludes  me,  hurriedly, 

A  man,  yet  by  these  tears  a  little  boy  again, 

Throwing  myself  on  the  sand,  confronting  the  waves, 

t,  chanter  of  pains  and  joys,  uniter  of  here  and  here- 
after, 

Taking  all  hints  to  use  them,  hut  swiftly  leaping  be 
yond  them, 

A  reminiscence  sing. 


OUT   OF   THE    CRADLE  105 

Once  Paumanok, 

When  the  lilac-scent  was  in  the  air  and  Fifth-month 

grass  was  growing, 
Up  this  seashore  in  some  briers, 
Two  feathered  guests  from  Alabama,  two  together, 
And  their  nest,  and  four  light-green  eggs  spotted  with 

brown, 

And  every  day  the  he-bird  to  and  fro  near  at  hand, 
And  every  day  the  she-bird  crouched  on  her  nest, 

silent,  with  bright  eyes, 
And  every  day  I,  a  curious  boy,  never  too  close,  never 

disturbing  them, 
Cautiously  peering,  absorbing,  translating. 

Shine!  shine!  shine! 

Pour  down  your  warmth,  great  sun! 

While  we  bask,  we  two  together. 

Two  together! 

Winds  blow  south,  or  winds  blow  north, 
Day  come  white,  or  night  come  black, 
Home,  or  rivers  and  mountains  from  home. 
Singing  all  time,  minding  no  time, 
While  we  two  keep  together. 

Till  of  a  sudden, 

Maybe  killed,  unknown  to  her  mate, 

One  forenoon  the  she-bird  crouched  not  on  the  nest, 

Vor  returned  that  afternoon,  nor  the  next, 

Nor  ever  appeared  again. 

And  thenceforward  all  summer  in  the  sound  of  the  sea, 
And  at  night  under  the  full  of  the  moon  in  calmer 
weather, 


106  WALT   WHITMAN 

Over  the  hoarse  surging  of  the  sea, 

Or  flitting  from  brier  to  brier  by  day, 

I  saw,  I  heard  at  intervals  the  remaining  one,  the  he« 

bird, 
The  solitary  guest  from  Alabama. 

Blow!  blow!  blow! 

Blow  up  sea-winds  along  Paumanok's  shore; 

I  wait  and  I  wait  till  you  blow  my  mate  to  me. 

Yes,  when  the  stars  glistened, 

All  night  long  on  the  prong  of  a  moss-scalloped  stake, 

Down  almost  amid  the  slapping  waves, 

Sat  the  lone  singer  wonderful  causing  tears. 

He  called  on  his  mate, 

He  poured  forth  the  meanings  which  I  of  all  men  know. 

Yes,  my  brother,  I  know,  — 

The  rest  might  not,  but  I  have  treasured  every  note, 
For  more  than  once  dimly  down  to  the  beach  gliding. 
Silent,  avoiding  the  moonbeams,  blending  myself  with 

the  shadows, 
Recalling  now  the  obscure  shapes,  the  echoes,  the 

sounds  and  sights  after  their  sorts, 
The  white  arms  out  in  the  breakers  tirelessly  tossing, 
I,  with  bare  feet,  a  child,  the  wind  wafting  my  hair, 
Listened  long  and  long. 

Listened  to  keep,  to  sing,  now  translating  the  notes, 
Following  you,  my  brother. 

Soothe!  soothe!  soothe! 

Close  on  its  wave  soothes  tlie  wave  behind, 


OUT   OF   THE   CRADLE  107 

And  again  another  behind  embracing  and  lapping,  every 

one  close, 
But  my  love  soothes  not  me,  not  me. 

Low  hangs  the  moon,  it  rose  late, 

It  is  lagging  —  01  think  it  is  heavy  with  love,  with  love. 

0  madly  the  sea  pushes  upon  the  land, 
With  love,  with  love. 

0  night!  do  I  not  see  my  love  fluttering  out  among  the 

breakers? 
What  is  that  little  black  thing  I  see  there  in  the  white? 

Loud!  loud!  loud! 

Loud  I  call  to  you,  my  love! 

High  and  clear  I  shoot  my  voice  over  the  waves, 
Surely  you  must  know  who  is  here,  is  here, 
You  must  know  who  I  am,  my  love. 

Low-hanging  moon! 

What  is  that  dusky  spot  in  your  brown  yellow? 

0  it  is  the  shape,  the  shape  of  my  mate! 

0  moon,  do  not  keep  her  from  me  any  longer. 

Land!  land!  0  land! 

Whichever  way  I  turn,  0,  I  think  you  could  give  me  my 

mate  back  again  if  you  only  would, 
For  I  am  almost  sure  I  see  her  dimly  whichever  way  I 

look. 

0  rising  stars! 

Perhaps  the  one  I  want  so  much  will  rise,  will  rise  with 
some  of  you. 


108  WALT   WHITMAN 

0  throat!  0  trembling  throat! 

Sound  clearer  through  the  atmosphere! 

Pierce  the  woods,  the  earth, 

Somewhere  listening  to  catch  you  must  be  the  one  I  want. 

Shake  out  carols! 

Solitary  here,  the  night's  carols! 

Carols  of  lonesome  love!  death's  carols! 

Carols  under  that  lagging,  yellow,  waning  moon! 

0  under  that  moon  where  she  droops  almost  down  into 

the  sea! 
0  reckless  despairing  carols! 

But  soft!  sink  low! 

Soft!  let  me  just  murmur, 

And  do  you  wait  a  moment,  you  husky-noised  sea, 

For  somewhere  I  believe  I  heard  my  mate  responding  to 
me, 

So  faint,  I  must  be  still,  be  still  to  listen, 

But  not  altogether  still,  for  then  she  might  not  come  im- 
mediately to  me. 

Hither,  my  love! 

Here  I  am!  here! 

With  this  just-sustained  note  I  announce  myself  to  you, 

This  gentle  call  is  for  you,  my  love,  for  you. 

Do  not  be  decoyed  elseivhere: 
That  is  the  whistle  of  the  wind,  it  is  not  my  voice, 
That  is  the  fluttering,  the  flutteiing  of  the  spray, 
Those  are  the  shadows  of  leaves. 

0  darkness!  0  in  vain! 

0  I  am  very  sick  and  sorrowful. 


OUT   OF   THE    CRADLE  109 

0  brown  halo  in  the  sky  near  tlw  moon,  drooping  upon 

the  sea! 

0  troubled  reflection  in  the  sea! 
0  throat!   0  throbbing  heart! 
And  I  singing  uselessly!  uselessly  all  the  night. 

0  past!  0  happy  life!  0  songs  of  joy! 
In  the  air,  in  the  woods,  over  fields, 
Loved!  loved!  loved!  loved!  loved! 
But  my  mate  no  more,  no  more  with  me! 
We  two  together  no  more. 

The  aria  sinking, 

All  else  continuing,  the  stars  shining, 

The  winds  blowing,  the  notes  of  the  bird  continuous 

echoing, 
With  angry  moans  the  fierce  old  mother  incessantly 

moaning, 

On  the  sands  of  Paumanok's  shore  gray  and  rustling, 
The  yellow  half-moon  enlarged,  sagging  down,  droop- 
ing, the  face  of  the  sea  almost  touching, 
The  boy  ecstatic,  with  his  bare  feet  the  waves,  with 

his  hair  the  atmosphere  dallying, 
The  love  in  the  heart  long  pent,  now  loose,  now  at  last 

tumultuously  bursting, 

The  aria's  meaning,  the  ears,  the  soul,  swiftly  depositing, 
The  strange  tears  down  the  cheeks  coursing, 
The  colloquy  there,  the  trio,  each  uttering, 
The  undertone,  the  savage  old  mother  incessantly 

crying, 
To  the  boy's  soul's  questions  sullenly  timing,  some 

drown'd  secret  hissing, 
To  the  outsetting  bard. 


110  WALT   WHITMAN 

Demon  or  bird!  (said  the  boy's  soul) 

Is  it  indeed  toward  your  mate  you  sing?  or  is  it  really 

to  me? 
For  I,  that  was  a  child,  my  tongue's  use  sleeping,  now 

I  have  heard  you, 

Now  in  a  moment  I  know  what  I  am  for,  I  awake, 
And  already  a  thousand  singers,  a  thousand  songs, 

clearer,     louder    and     more     sorrowful    than 

yours, 
A  thousand  warbling  echoes  have  started  to  life  within 

me,  never  to  die. 

O  you  singers  solitary,  singing  by  yourself,  projecting 
me, 

O  solitary  me  listening,  never  more  shall  I  cease  per- 
petuating you, 

Never  more  shall  I  escape,  never  more  the  reverbera- 
tions, 

Never  more  the  cries  of  unsatisfied  love  be  absent 
from  me, 

Never  again  leave  me  to  be  the  peaceful  child  I  was 
before  what  there  in  the  night, 

By  the  sea  under  the  yellow  and  sagging  moon, 

The  messenger  there  aroused,  the  fire,  the  sweet  hell 
within, 

The  unknown  want,  the  destiny  of  me. 

O  give  me  the  clew!  (it  lurks  in  the  night  here  som£ 
where) 

O  if  I  am  to  have  so  much,  let  me  have  more! 

A  word  then,  (for  I  will  conquer  it) 

The  word  final,  superior  to  all, 

Subtle,  sent  up  —  what  is  it?  —  I  listen; 


OUT   OF   THE   CRADLE  111 

Are  you  whispering  it,  and  have  been  all  the  timev 

you  sea- waves? 

Is  that  it  from  your  liquid  rims  and  wet  sands? 
Whereto  answering,  the  sea, 
Delaying  not,  hurrying  not, 
Whispered  me  through  the  night,  and  very  plainly 

before  daybreak, 

Lisped  to  me  the  low  and  delicious  word  death, 
And  again  death,  death,  death,  death, 
Hissing  melodious,  neither  like  the  bird  nor  like  my 

aroused  child's  heart, 
But  edging  near  as  privately  for  me,  rustling  at  my 

feet, 
Creeping  thence  steadily  up  to  my  ears  and  laving  me 

softly  all  over, 
Death,  death,  death,  death,  death. 

Which  I  do  not  forget, 

But  fuse  the  song  of  my  dusky  demon  and  brother, 

That  he  sang  to  me  in  the  moonlight  on  Paumanok's 

gray  beach, 

With  the  thousand  responsive  songs  at  random, 
My  own  songs  awaked  from  that  hour, 
And  with  them  the  key,  the  word  up  from  the  waves, 
The  word  of  the  sweetest  song  and  all  songs, 
That  strong  and  delicious  word  which,  creeping  to  my 

feet, 
(Or  like  some  old  crone  rocking  the  cradle,  swathed 

in  sweet  garments,  bending  aside) 
The  sea  whispered  me. 

Walt  Whitman 


112  WALT   WHITMAN 

DEATH  CAROL 

(From  "  When  Lilacs  Last  in  the  Door- Yard  Bloomed  ") 

COME,  lovely  and  soothing  Death, 

Undulate  round  the  world,  serenely  arriving,  arriving,, 

In  the  day,  in  the  night,  to  all,  to  each, 

Sooner  or  later,  delicate  Death. 

Praised  be  the  fathomless  universe, 
For  life  and  joy,  and  for  objects  and  knowledge  curi- 
ous; 

And  for  love,  sweet  love  —  But  praise!  praise!  praise! 
For  the  sure-enwinding  arms  of  cool-enfolding  Death. 

Dark  Mother,  always  gliding  near,  with  soft  feet, 

Have  none  chanted  for  thee  a  chant  of  fullest  wel- 
come? 

Then  I  chant  it  for  thee  —  I  glorify  thee  above  all; 

I  bring  thee  a  song  that  when  thou  must  indeed  come, 
come  unfalteringly. 

Approach,  strong  deliveress! 

When  it  is  so  —  when  thou  hast  taken  them,  I  joy- 
ously sing  the  dead, 

Lost  in  the  loving,  floating  ocean  of  thee, 
Laved  in  the  flood  of  thy  bliss,  O  Death. 

From  me  to  thee  glad  serenades, 

Dances  for  thee  I  propose,  saluting  thee  —  adorn- 
ments and  f eastings  for  thee; 

And  the  sights  of  the  open  landscape,  and  the  high- 
spread  sky,  are  fitting, 

And  life  and  the  fields,  and  the  huge  and  thoughtful 
night. 


THE   SPLENDID   SILENT   SUN     113 

The  night,  in  silence,  under  many  a  star; 

The  ocean  shore,  and  the  husky  whispering  wave, 

whose  voice  I  know; 
A.nd  the  soul  turning  to  thee,  O  vast  and  well-veiled 

Death, 
And  the  body  gratefully  nestling  close  to  thee. 

Over  the  tree-tops  I  float  thee  a  song! 

Over  the  rising  and  sinking  waves  —  over  the  myriad 

fields,  and  the  prairies  wide; 
Over  the  dense-packed  cities  all,  and  the  teeming 

wharves  and  ways, 

I  float  this  carol  with  joy,  with  joy  to  thee,  O  Death! 

Walt  Whitman. 

GIVE  ME  THE  SPLENDID  SILENT  SUN 

GIVE  me  the  splendid  silent  sun  with  all  his  beams  full- 
dazzling, 
Give  me  juicy  autumnal  fruit  ripe  and  red  from  the 

orchard, 

Give  me  a  field  where  the  unmowed  grass  grows, 
Give  me  an  arbor,  give  me  the  trellised  grape, 
Give  me  fresh  corn  and  wheat,  give  me  serene-moving 

animals  teaching  content, 
Give  me  nights  perfectly  quiet  as  on  high  plateaus  west 

of  the  Mississippi,  and  I  looking  up  at  the  stars, 
Give  me  odorous  at  sunrise  a  garden  of    beautiful 

flowers  where  I  can  walk  undisturbed, 
Give  me  for  marriage  a  sweet-breathed  woman  of 

whom  I  should  never  tire, 
Give  me  a  perfect  child,  give  me,  away  aside  from  the 

noise  of  the  world,  a  rural  domestic  life, 


114  WALT   WHITMAN 

Give  me  to  warble  spontaneous  songs  recluse  by  my- 
self, for  my  own  ears  only, 

Give  me  solitude,  give  me  Nature,  give  me  again  O 
Nature  your  primal  sanities! 

These  demanding  to  have  them,  (tired  with  ceaseless 

excitement,  and  racked  by  the  war-strife) 
These  to  procure   incessantly  asking,  rising  in  cries 

from  my  heart, 

While  yet  incessantly  asking  still  I  adhere  to  my  city 
Day  upon  day  and  year  upon  year,  O  city,  walking 

your  streets, 
Where  you  hold  me  enchained  a  certain  time  refusing 

to  give  me  up, 
Yet  giving  to  make  me  glutted,  enriched  of  soul,  you 

give  me  forever  faces; 
(O  I  see  what  I  ought  to  escape,  confronting,  reversing 

my  cries, 
I  see  my  own  soul  trampling  down  what  it  asked  for.) 

Keep  your  splendid  silent  sun, 

Keep  your  woods,  O  Nature,  and  the  quiet  places  by 
the  woods, 

Keep  your  fields  of  clover  and  timothy,  and  your  corn- 
fields and  orchards, 

Keep  the  blossoming  buckwheat  fields  where  the 
Ninth-month  bees  hum; 

Give  me  faces  and  streets  —  give  me  these  phantoms 
incessant  and  endless  along  the  trottoirs! 

Give  me  interminable  eyes  —  give  me  women  —  give 
me  comrades  and  lovers  by  the  thousand ! 

Let  me  see  new  ones  every  day  —  let  me  hold  new 
ones  by  the  hand  every  day ! 


THE   SPLENDID   SILENT   SUN     115 

Give  me  such  shows  —  give  me  the  streets  of  Man- 
hattan ! 

Give  me  Broadway,  with  the  soldiers  marching  — 
give  me  the  sound  of  the  trumpets  and  drums! 

(The  soldiers  in  companies  or  regiments  —  some  start- 
ing away  flushed  and  reckless, 

Some,  their  time  up,  returning  with  thinned  ranks, 
young,  yet  very  old,  worn,  marching,  noticing 
nothing;) 

Give  me  the  shores  and  wharves  heavy-fringed  with 
black  ships! 

O  such  for  me!  O  an  intense  life,  full  to  repletion  and 
varied ! 

The  life  of  the  theatre,  bar-room,  huge  hotel,  for  me! 

The  saloon  of  the  steamer !  The  crowded  excursion  for 
me!  The  torchlight  procession! 

The  dense  brigade  bound  for  the  war,  with  high-piled 
military  wagons  following; 

People,  endless,  streaming,  with  strong  voices,  pas- 
sions, pageants, 

Manhattan  streets  with  their  powerful  throbs,  with 
beating  drums  as  now, 

The  endless  and  noisy  chorus,  the  rustle  and  clank  of 
muskets  (even  the  sight  of  the  wounded), 

Manhattan  crowds,  with  their  turbulent  musical 
chorus ! 

\lanhattan  faces  and  eyes  forever  for  me. 

Walt  Whitman. 


116  THOMAS  WENTWORTH  HIGGINSON 

A  NOISELESS,   PATIENT  SPIDER 

A  NOISELESS,  patient  spider, 

I  marked,  where,  on  a  little  promontory,  it  stood 

isolated ; 

Marked  how,  to  explore  the  vacant,  vast  surrounding, 
It  launched  forth  filament,  filament,  filament,  out  of 

itself; 
Ever  unreeling  them  —  ever  tirelessly  speeding  them. 

And  you,  O  my  Soul,  where  you  stand, 

Surrounded,  surrounded,   in    measureless    oceans    of 

space, 
Ceaselessly    musing,  venturing,  throwing,  —  seeking 

the  spheres,  to  connect  them ; 
Till  the  bridge  you  will  need,  be  formed  —  till  the 

ductile  anchor  hold; 
Till  the  gossamer  thread  you  fling,  catch  somewhere, 

O  my  Soul. 

Walt  Whitman. 

THE  SNOWING  OF  THE  PINES 

SOFTER  than  silence,  stiller  than  still  air 

Float  down  from  high  pine-boughs  the  slender  leaves. 

The  forest  floor  its  annual  boon  receives 

That  comes  like  snowfall,  tireless,  tranquil,  fair. 

Gently  they  glide,  gently  they  clothe  the  bare 

Old  rocks  with  grace.   Their  fall  a  mantle  weaves 

Of  paler  yellow  than  autumnal  sheaves 

Or  those  strange  blossoms  the  witch-hazels  wear. 

Athwart  long  aisles  the  sunbeams  pierce  their  way; 

High  up,  the  crows  are  gathering  for  the  night; 


THE   BLACKBIRD  117 

The  delicate  needles  fill  the  air;  the  jay 

Takes  through  their  golden  mist  his  radiant  flight; 

They  fall  and  fall,  till  at  November's  close 

The  snow-flakes  drop  as  lightly  —  snows  on  snows. 

Thomas  Wentworth  Higginson. 

THE  TRUMPETER 

I  BLEW,  I  blew,  the  trumpet  loudly  sounding; 
I  blew,  I  blew,  the  heart  within  me  bounding; 
The  world  was  fresh  and  fair,  yet  dark  with  wrong, 
And  men  stood  forth  to  conquer  at  the  song  — 
I  blew!  I  blew!  I  blew! 

The  field  is  won,  the  minstrels  loud  are  crying, 
And  all  the  world  is  peace,  and  I  am  dying. 
Yet  this  forgotten  life  was  not  in  vain; 
Enough  if  I  alone  recall  the  strain, 
I  blew!  I  blew!  I  blew! 

Thomas  Wentworth  Higginson. 

THE  BLACKBIRD 

ONE  on  another  against  the  wall 

Pile  up  the  books,  —  I  am  done  with  them  all! 

I  shall  be  wise,  if  I  ever  am  wise, 

Out  of  my  own  ears,  and  of  my  own  eyes. 

One  day  of  the  woods  and  their  balmy  light,  — 
One  hour  on  the  top  of  a  breezy  hill, 
There  in  the  sassafras  all  out  of  sight 
The  blackbird  is  splitting  his  slender  bill 
For  the  ease  of  his  heart! 


118  LUCY   LARCOM 

Do  you  think  if  he  said 

I  will  sing  like  this  bird  with  the  mud-colored  back 
And  the  two  little  spots  of  gold  over  his  eyes, 
Or  like  to  this  shy  little  creature  that  flies 
So  low  to  the  ground,  with  the  amethyst  rings 
About  her  small  throat,  —  all  alive  when  she  sings 
With  a  glitter  of  shivering  green,  —  for  the  rest, 
Gray  shading  to  gray,  with  the  sheen  of  her  breast 
Half  rose  and  half  fawn,  — 

Or  like  this  one  so  proud, 
That  flutters  so  restless,  and  cries  out  so  loud, 
With  stiff  horny  beak  and  a  topknotted  head, 
And  a  lining  of  scarlet  laid  under  his  wings,  — 
Do  you  think,  if  he  said,  "I'm  ashamed  to  be  black!*' 
That  he  could  have  shaken  the  sassafras  tree 
As  he  does  with  the  song  he  was  born  to?  Not  he ! 

Alice  Gary. 

A  STRIP  OF  BLUE 

I  DO  not  own  an  inch  of  land, 

But  all  I  see  is  mine,  — 
The  orchard  and  the  mowing-fields, 

The  lawns  and  gardens  fine. 
The  winds  my  tax-collectors  are, 

They  bring  me  tithes  divine,  — 
Wild  scents  and  subtle  essences, 

A  tribute  rare  and  free; 
And,  more  magnificent  than  all, 

My  window  keeps  for  me 
A  glimpse  of  blue  immensity,  — 

A  little  strip  of  sea. 


A   STRIP   OF   BLUE  119 

Richer  am  I  than  he  who  owns 

Great  fleets  and  argosies; 
I  have  a  share  in  every  ship 

Won  by  the  inland  breeze, 
To  loiter  on  yon  airy  road 

Above  the  apple-trees. 
I  freight  them  with  my  untold  dreams; 

Each  bears  my  own  picked  crew; 
And  nobler  cargoes  wait  for  them 

Than  ever  India  knew,  — 
My  ships  that  sail  into  the  East 

Across  that  outlet  blue. 

Sometimes  they  seem  like  living  shapes,  — 

The  people  of  the  sky,  — 
Guests  in  white  raiment  coming  down 

From  heaven,  which  is  close  by; 
I  call  them  by  familiar  names, 

As  one  by  one  draws  nigh. 
So  white,  so  light,  so  spirit-like, 

From  violet  mists  they  bloom! 
The  aching  wastes  of  the  unknown 

Are  half  reclaimed  from  gloom, 
Since  on  life's  hospitable  sea 

All  souls  find  sailing-room. 

The  ocean  grows  a  weariness 

With  nothing  else  in  sight; 
Its  east  and  west,  its  north  and  south, 

Spread  out  from  morn  till  night; 
We  miss  the  warm,  caressing  shore, 

Its  brooding  shade  and  light. 
A  part  is  greater  than  the  whole; 

By  hints  are  mysteries  told. 


120  LUCY  LARCOM 

The  fringes  of  eternity,  — 
God's  sweeping  garment-fold, 

In  that  bright  shred  of  glittering  sea, 
I  reach  out  for  and  hold. 

The  sails,  like  flakes  of  roseate  pearl, 

Float  in  upon  the  mist; 
The  waves  are  broken  precious  stones,  — 

Sapphire  and  amethyst 
Washed  from  celestial  basement  walls, 

By  suns  unsetting  kist. 
Out  through  the  utmost  gates  of  space, 

Past  where  the  gray  stars  drift, 
To  the  widening  Infinite,  my  soul 

Glides  on,  a  vessel  swift, 
Yet  loses  not  her  anchorage 

In  yonder  azure  rift. 

Here  sit  I,  as  a  little  child; 

The  threshold  of  God's  door 
Is  that  clear  band  of  chrysoprase; 

Now  the  vast  temple  floor, 
The  blinding  glory  of  the  dome 

I  bow  my  head  before. 
Thy  universe,  O  God,  is  home, 

In  height  or  depth,  to  me; 
Yet  here  upon  thy  footstool  green 

Content  am  I  to  be; 
Glad  when  is  oped  unto  my  need 

Some  sea-like  glimpse  of  Thee. 

Lucy  Larcom. 


THE   BURIAL  OF  THE   DANE      121 

THE  BURIAL  OF  THE  DANE 

BLUE  gulf  all  around  us, 

Blue  sky  overhead  — 
Muster  all  on  the  quarter, 

We  must  bury  the  dead ! 

It  is  but  a  Danish  sailor. 

Rugged  of  front  and  form; 
A  common  son  of  the  forecastle, 

Grizzled  with  sun  and  storm. 

His  name,  and  the  strand  he  hailed  from 
We  know,  and  there's  nothing  more! 

But  perhaps  his  mother  is  v/aiting 
In  the  lonely  Island  of  Fohr. 

Still,  as  he  lay  there  dying, 
Reason  drifting  awreck, 
*"T  is  my  watch,"  he  would  mutter, 
"I  must  go  upon  deck!" 

Aye,  on  deck,  by  the  foremast! 

But  watch  and  lookout  are  done; 
The  Union  Jack  laid  o'er  him, 

How  quiet  he  lies  in  the  sun! 

Slow  the  ponderous  engine, 

Stay  the  hurrying  shaft; 
Let  the  roll  of  the  ocean 

Cradle  our  giant  craft; 
Gather  around  the  grating, 

Carry  your  messmate  aft! 


122     HENRY   HOWARD   BROWNELL 

Stand  in  order,  and  listen 

To  the  holiest  page  of  prayer ! 

Let  every  foot  be  quiet, 
Every  head  be  bare  — 

The  soft  trade-wind  is  lifting 
A  hundred  locks  of  hair. 

Our  captain  reads  the  service, 
(A  little  spray  on  his  cheeks) 

The  grand  old  words  of  burial, 

And  the  trust  a  true  heart  seeks:  — 
"We  therefore  commit  his  body 

To  the  deep  "  —  and,  as  he  speaks, 

Launched  from  the  weather  railing, 
Swift  as  the  eye  can  mark, 

The  ghastly,  shotted  hammock 
Plunges,  away  from  the  shark, 

Down,  a  thousand  fathoms, 
Down  into  the  dark ! 

A  thousand  summers  and  winters 
The  stormy  Gulf  shall  roll 

High  o'er  his  canvas  coffin; 

But,  silence  to  doubt  and  dole:  — 

There 's  a  quiet  harbor  somewhere 
For  the  poor  aweary  soul. 

Free  the  fettered  engine, 

Speed  the  tireless  shaft, 
Loose  to'gallant  and  topsail, 

The  breeze  is  fair  abaft! 


THE   TWO   FRIENDS  123 

Blue  sea  all  around  us, 

Blue  sky  bright  o'erhead  — 
Every  man  to  his  duty, 

We  have  buried  our  dead ! 

Henry  Howard.  BrovmeU. 


THE  TWO  FRIENDS 

I  HAVE  two  friends  —  two  glorious  friends  —  two 

better  could  not  be, 
And  every  night  when  midnight  tolls  they  meet  to 

laugh  with  me. 

The  first  was  shot  by  Carlist  thieves  —  ten  years  ago 

in  Spain. 
The  second  drowned  near  Alicante  —  while  I  alive 

remain. 

I  love  to  see  their  dim  white  forms  come  floating 

through  the  night, 
And  grieve  to  see  them  fade  away  in  early  morning 

light. 

The  first  with  gnomes  in  the  Under  Land  is  leading 

a  lordly  life, 
The  second  has  married  a  mermaiden,  a  beautiful 

water-wife. 

And  since  I  have  friends  in  the  Earth  and  Sea  —  with 

a  few,  I  trust,  on  high, 
'T  is  a  matter  of  small  account  to  me  —  the  way  that 

I  may  die. 


124  BAYARD   TAYLOR 

For  whether  I  sink  in  the  foaming  flood,  or  swing  on 

the  triple  tree, 
Or  die  in  my  bed,  as  a  Christian  should,  is  all  the  same 

to  me. 

Charles  Godfrey  Leland. 

TYRE 

THE  wild  and  windy  morning  is  lit  with  lurid  fire; 
The  thundering  surf  of  ocean  beats  on  the  rocks  of 

Tyre,  — 
Beats  on  the  fallen  columns  and  round  the  headland 

roars, 

Arid  hurls  its  foamy  volume  along  the  hollow  shores, 
And  calls  with  hungry  clamor,  that  speaks  its  long 

desire : 
"Where  are  the  ships  of  Tarshish,  the  mighty  ships  of 

Tyre?" 

Within  her  cunning  harbor,  choked  with  invading  sand, 
No  galleys  bring  their  freightage,  the  spoils  of  every 

land, 
And  like  a  prostrate  forest,  when  autumn  gales  have 

blown, 
Her  colonnades  of    granite  lie  shattered    and  o'er- 

thrown; 

And  from  the  reef  the  pharos  no  longer  flings  its  fire, 
To  beacon  home  from  Tarshish  the  lordly  ships  of 

Tyre. 

Where  is   thy  rod  of  empire,  once   mighty  on   the 

waves,  — 
Thou  that  thyself    exalted,  till    Kings  became  thy 

slaves? 


TYRE  125 

Thou  that  didst  speak  to  nations,  and  saw  thy  will 
obeyed,  — 

Whose  favor  made  them  joyful,  whose  anger  sore 
afraid,  — 

Who  laid  'st  thy  deep  foundations,  and  thought  them 
strong  and  sure, 

And  boasted  midst  the  waters,  Shall  I  not  aye  en- 
dure? 

Where  is  the  wealth  of  ages  that  heaped  thy  princely 

mart? 
The  pomp  of  purple  trappings;  the  gems  of  Syrian 

art; 

The  silken  goats  of  Kedar;  Sabsea's  spicy  store; 
The  tributes  of  the  islands  thy  squadrons  homeward 

bore, 
When  in  thy  gates  triumphant  they  entered  from  the 

sea 
With  sound  of  horn  and  sackbut,  of  harp  and  psaltery? 

Howl,  howl,  ye  ships  of  Tarshish!  the  glory  is  laid 

waste: 

There  is  no  habitation;  the  mansions  are  defaced. 
No  mariners  of  Sidon  unfurl  your  mighty  sails; 
No  workmen  fell  the  fir-trees  that  grow  in  Shenir's 

vales 
And  Bashan's  oaks  that  boasted  a  thousand  years  of 

sun, 
Or  hew  the  masts  of  cedar  on  frosty  Lebanon. 

Rise,  thou  forgotten  harlot!   take  up  thy  harp  and 

sing: 
Call  the  rebellious  islands  to  own  their  ancient  king: 


126  BAYARD   TAYLOR 

Bare  to  the  spray  thy  bosom,  and  with  thy  hair  un- 
bound, 

Sit  on  the  piles  of  ruins,  thou  throneless  and  dis- 
crowned ! 

There  mix  thy  voice  of  wailing  with  the  thunders  of 
the  sea, 

And  sing  thy  songs  of  sorrow,  that  thou  remembered 
be! 

Though  silent  and  forgotten,  yet  Nature  still  la- 
ments 

The  pomp  and  power  departed,  the  lost  magnifi- 
cence: 

The  hills  were  proud  to  see  thee,  and  they  are  sadder 
now; 

The  sea  was  proud  to  bear  thee,  and  wears  a  troubled 
brow, 

And  evermore  the  surges  chant  forth  their  vain  de- 
sire: 

"Where  are  the  ships  of  Tarshish,  the  mighty  ships  of 
Tyre?" 

Bayard  Taylor. 

SONG 

DAUGHTER  of  Egypt,  veil  thine  eyes! 

I  cannot  bear  their  fire; 
Nor  will  I  touch  with  sacrifice 

Those  altars  of  desire. 
For  they  are  flames  that  shun  the  day, 

And  their  unholy  light 
Is  fed  from  natures  gone  astray 

In  passion  and  in  night. 


BEDOUIN   SONG  127 

The  stars  of  Beauty  and  of  Sin, 

They  burn  amid  the  dark, 
Like  beacons  that  to  ruin  win 

The  fascinated  bark. 
Then  veil  their  glow,  lest  I  forswear 

The  hopes  thou  canst  not  crown, 
And  in  the  black  waves  of  thy  hair 

My  struggling  manhood  drown! 

Bayard  Taylor. 

BEDOUIN  SONG 

FROM  the  Desert  I  come  to  thee 

On  a  stallion  shod  with  fire; 
And  the  winds  are  left  behind 

In  the  speed  of  my  desire. 
Under  thy  window  I  stand, 

And  the  midnight  hears  my  cry: 
I  love  thee,  I  love  but  thee, 
With  a  love  that  shall  not  die 
Till  the  sun  grows  cold, 
And  the  stars  are  old, 
And  the  leaves  of  the  Judgment  Book 
Unfold/ 

Look  from  thy  window  and  see 

My  passion  and  my  pain; 
I  lie  on  the  sands  below, 

And  I  faint  in  thy  disdain. 
Let  the  night-winds  touch  thy  brow 

With  the  heat  of  my  burning  sigh, 
And  melt  thee  to  hear  the  vow 

Of  a  love  that  shall  not  die 


128  JULIA    C.  R.  DORR 

Till  the  sun  grows  cold, 
And  the  stars  are  old, 
And  the  leaves  of  the  Judgment  Book 
Unfold! 

My  steps  are  nightly  driven, 
By  the  fever  in  my  breast, 
To  hear  from  thy  lattice  breathed 

The  word  that  shall  give  me  rest. 
Open  the  door  of  thy  heart, 

And  open  thy  chamber  door, 
And  my  kisses  shall  teach  thy  lips 
The  love  that  shall  fade  no  more 
Till  the  sun  grows  cold, 
And  the  stars  are  old, 
And  the  leaves  of  the  Judgment  Book 
Unfold! 

Bayard  Taylor. 


TO  A  LATE  COMER 

WHY  didst  thou  come  into  my  life  so  late? 
If  it  were  morning  I  could  welcome  thee 
With  glad  all-hails,  and  bid  each  hour  to  be 

The  willing  servitor  of  thine  estate, 

Lading  thy  brave  ships  with  Time's  richest  freight; 
If  it  were  noonday  I  might  hope  to  see 
On  some  fair  height  thy  banners  floating  free, 

And  hear  the  acclaiming  voices  call  thee  great! 

But  it  is  nightfall  and  the  stars  are  out; 

Far  in  the  west  the  crescent  moon  hangs  low, 
And  near  at  hand  the  lurking  shadows  wait; 


NEARER  HOME  129 

Darkness  and  silence  gather  Tound  about, 
Lethe's  black  stream  is  near  its  overflow,  — 

Ah,  friend,  dear  friend,  why  didst  thou  come  so 
late? 

Julia  C.  R.  Dorr. 

"THALATTA!  THALATTA!" 

CRY   OF    THE   TEN  THOUSAND 

I  STAND  upon  the  summit  of  my  years; 

Behind,  the  toil,  the  camp,  the  march,  the  strife, 

The  wandering  and  the  desert;  vast,  afar, 

Beyond  this  weary  way,  behold!  the  Sea! 

The  sea  o'erswept  by  clouds  and  winds  and  wings, 

By  thoughts  and  wishes  manifold,  whose  breath 

Is  freshness  and  whose  mighty  pulse  is  peace. 

Palter  no  question  of  the  dim  Beyond; 

Cut  loose  the  bark;  such  voyage  itself  is  rest, 

Majestic  motion,  unimpeded  scope, 

A  widening  heaven,  a  current  without  care. 

Eternity!  —  Deliverance,  Promise,  Course! 

Time-tired  souls  salute  thee  from  the  shore. 

Joseph  Brownlee  Brown. 

NEARER  HOME 

ONE  sweetly  solemn  thought 
Comes  to  me  o'er  and  o'er; 

I  am  nearer  home  to-day 

Than  I  ever  have  been  before; 

Nearer  my  Father's  house, 
Where  the  many  mansions  be; 


130    PHCEBE   GARY 

Nearer  the  great  white  throne, 
Nearer  the  crystal  sea; 

Nearer  the  bound  of  life, 

Where  we  lay  our  burdens  down; 

Nearer  leaving  the  cross, 
Nearer  gaining  the  crown. 

But  lying  darkly  between, 

Winding  down  through  the  night> 

Is  the  silent,  unknown  stream, 
That  leads  at  last  to  the  light. 

Closer  and  closer  my  steps 

Come  to  the  dread  abysm: 
Closer  Death  to  my  lips 

Presses  the  awful  chrism. 

Oh,  if  my  mortal  feet 

Have  almost  gained  the  brink; 

If  it  be  I  am  nearer  home 
Even  to-day  than  I  think; 

Father,  perfect  my  trust; 

Let  my  spirit  feel  in  death, 
That  her  feet  are  firmly  set 

On  the  rock  of  a  living  faith! 

Phoebe  Gary. 

ALAS! 

SINCE,  if  you  stood  by  my  side  to-day, 

Only  our  hands  could  meet, 
What  matter  that  half  the  weary  world 

Lies  between  our  feet; 


EBB   AND   FLOW     131 

That  I  am  here  by  the  lonesome  sea, 

You  by  the  pleasant  Rhine? 
Our  hearts  were  just  as  far  apart 

If  I  held  your  hand  in  mine! 

Therefore,  with  never  a  backward  glance, 

I  leave  the  past  behind; 
And  standing  here  by  the  sea  alone, 

I  give  it  to  the  wind. 

I  give  it  to  the  cruel  wind 

And  I  have  no  word  to  say; 
Yet,  alas !  to  be  as  we  have  been, 

And  to  be  as  we  are  to-day! 

Phoebe  Gary. 


EBB  AND  FLOW 

I  WALKED  beside  the  evening  sea, 
And  dreamed  a  dream  that  could  not  be; 
The  waves  that  plunged  along  the  shore 
Said  only  —  "Dreamer,  dream  no  more!" 

But  still  the  legions  charged  the  beach; 
Loud  rang  their  battle-cry,  like  speech; 
But  changed  was  the  imperial  strain: 
It  murmured  —  "Dreamer,  dream  again!" 

I  homeward  turned  from  out  the  gloom,  — 
That  sound  I  beard  not  in  my  room; 
But  suddenly  a  sound  that  stirred 
Within  my  very  breast,  I  heard. 


132    RICHARD   HENRY   STODDARD 

It  was  my  heart,  that  like  a  sea 
Within  my  breast  beat  ceaselessly: 
But  like  the  waves  along  the  shore, 
It  said  —  "Dream  on!"  and  "Dream  no  more!" 
George  William  Curtis, 

THE  FLIGHT  OF  YOUTH 

THERE  are  gains  for  all  our  losses, 
There  are  balms  for  all  our  pain: 
But  when  youth,  the  dream,  departs, 
It  takes  something  from  our  hearts, 
And  it  never  comes  again. 

We  are  stronger,  and  are  better, 

Under  manhood's  sterner  reign: 
Still  we  feel  that  something  sweet 
Followed  youth,  with  flying  feet, 
And  will  never  come  again. 

Something  beautiful  is  vanished, 

And  we  sigh  for  it  in  vain: 
We  behold  it  everywhere, 
On  the  earth,  and  in  the  air, 

But  it  never  comes  again. 

Richard  Henry  Stoddard^ 

BIRDS 

BIRDS  are  singing  round  my  window, 
Tunes  the  sweetest  ever  heard, 

And  I  hang  my  cage  there  daily, 
But  I  never  catch  a  bird. 


MERCEDES  133 


So  with  thoughts  my  brain  is  peopled, 
And  they  sing  there  all  day  long : 

But  they  will  not  fold  their  pinions 
In  the  little  cage  of  Song ! 

Richard  Henry  Stoddard. 

MERCEDES 

UNDER  a  sultry,  yellow  sky, 

On  the  yellow  sand  I  lie; 

The  crinkled  vapors  smite  my  brain, 

I  smoulder  in  a  fiery  pain. 

Above  the  crags  the  condor  flies; 
He  knows  where  the  red  gold  lies, 
He  knows  where  the  diamonds  shine;  — 
If  I  knew,  would  she  be  mine? 

Mercedes  in  her  hammock  swings; 
In  her  court  a  palm-tree  flings 
Its  slender  shadow  on  the  ground, 
The  fountain  falls  with  silver  sound. 

Her  lips  are  like  this  cactus  cup; 
With  my  hand  I  crush  it  up; 
I  tear  its  flaming  leaves  apart;  — 
Would  that  I  could  tear  her  heart! 

Last  night  a  man  was  at  her  gate; 
In  the  hedge  I  lay  in  wait; 
I  saw  Mercedes  meet  him  there, 
By  the  fireflies  in  her  hair. 


134  FRANCIS   MILES   FINCH 

I  waited  till  the  break  of  day, 
Then  I  rose  and  stole  away; 
But  left  my  dagger  in  the  gate;  — 
Now  she  knows  her  lover's  fate! 

Elizabeth  Stoddard. 


THE  BLUE  AND  THE  GRAY 

BY  the  flow  of  the  inland  river, 

Whence  the  fleets  of  iron  have  fled, 
Where  the  blades  of  the  grave-grass  quiver, 
Asleep  are  the  ranks  of  the  dead :  — 
Under  the  sod  and  the  dew, 

Waiting  the  Judgment  Day :  — 
Under  the  one,  the  Blue; 
Under  the  other,  the  Gray. 

These  in  the  robings  of  glory, 

Those  in  the  gloom  of  defeat, 
All  with  the  battle-blood  gory, 
In  the  dusk  of  eternity  meet: 
Under  the  sod  and  the  dew, 

Waiting  the  Judgment  Day:  — 
Under  the  laurel,  the  Blue; 
Under  the  willow,  the  Gray. 

From  the  silence  of  sorrowful  hours 

The  desolate  mourners  go, 
Lovingly  laden  with  flowers, 

Alike  for  the  friend  and  the  foe:  — 
Under  the  sod  and  the  dew, 
Waiting  the  Judgment  Day:  — 


THE  BLUE  AND  THE  GRAY   135 

Under  the  roses,  the  Blue; 
Under  the  lilies,  the  Gray. 

So,  with  an  equal  splendor 

The  morning  sun-rays  fall, 
With  a  touch  impartially  tender, 
On  the  blossoms  blooming  for  all :  — 
Under  the  sod  and  the  dew, 

Waiting  the  Judgment  Day:  — 
Broidered  with  gold,  the  Blue; 
Mellowed  with  gold,  the  Gray. 

So,  when  the  summer  calleth, 
On  forest  and  field  cf  grain, 
With  an  equal  murmur  falleth 
The  cooling  drip  of  the  rain :  — 
Under  the  sod  and  the  dew, 

Waiting  the  Judgment  Day:  — 
Wet  with  the  rain,  the  Blue; 
Wet  with  the  rain,  the  Gray. 

Sadly,  but  not  with  upbraiding, 
The  generous  deed  was  done. 
In  the  storms  of  the  years  that  are  fading 
No  braver  battle  was  won: 
Under  the  sod  and  the  dew, 

Waiting  the  Judgment  Day:  — 
Under  the  blossoms,  the  Blue; 
Under  the  garlands,  the  Gray, 

No  more  shall  the  war-cry  sever, 
Or  the  winding  rivers  be  red: 


IS6  HENRY   TIMROD 

They  banish  our  anger  forever 

When  they  laurel  the  graves  of  our  dead! 
Under  the  sod  and  the  dew, 

Waiting  the  Judgment  Day :  — 
Love  and  tears  for  the  Blue; 
Tears  and  love  for  the  Gray. 

Francis  Miles  Finch. 

AT  MAGNOLIA  CEMETERY 

SLEEP  sweetly  in  your  humble  graves 
Sleep,  martyrs  of  a  fallen  cause; 

Though  yet  no  marble  column  craves 
The  pilgrim  here  to  pause. 

In  seeds  of  laurel  in  the  earth 

The  blossom  of  your  fame  is  blown, 

And  somewhere,  waiting  for  its  birth, 
The  shaft  is  in  the  stone! 

Meanwhile,  behalf  the  tardy  years 

Which  keep  in  trust  your  storied  tombs, 

Behold !  your  sisters  bring  their  tears, 
And  these  memorial  blooms. 

Small  tributes!  but  your  shades  will  smile 
More  proudly  on  these  wreaths  to-day 

Than  when  some  cannon-moulded  pile 
Shall  overlook  this  bay. 

Stoop,  angels,  hither  from  the  skies! 

There  is  no  holier  spot  of  ground 
Than  where  defeated  valor  lies, 

By  mourning  beauty  crowned! 

Henry  Timrod, 


SPRING  137 


SPRING 

SPRING,  with  that  nameless  pathos  in  the  air 
Which  dwells  with  all  things  fair, 
Spring,  with  her  golden  suns  and  silver  rain, 
Is  with  us  once  again. 

Out  in  the  lonely  woods  the  jasmine  burns 
Its  fragrant  lamps,  and  turns 
Into  a  royal  court  with  green  festoons 
The  banks  of  dark  lagoons. 

In  the  deep  heart  of  every  forest  tree 
The  blood  is  all  aglee. 

And  there 's  a  look  about  the  leafless  bowers 
As  if  they  dreamed  of  flowers. 

Yet  still  on  every  side  we  trace  the  hand 
Of  Winter  in  the  land, 
Save  where  the  maple  reddens  on  the  lawn, 
Flushed  by  the  season's  dawn; 

Or  where  like  those  strange  semblances  we  find 
That  age  to  childhood  bind, 
The  elm  puts  on,  as  if  in  Nature's  scorn, 
The  brown  of  Autumn  corn. 

And  yet  the  turf  is  dark,  although  you  know 
That,  not  a  span  below, 

A  thousand  germs  are  groping  through  the  gloom, 
And  soon  will  burst  their  tomb. 

Already,  here  and  there,  on  frailest  stems 
Appear  some  azure  gems, 


138  HENRY   TIMROD 

Small  as  might  deck,  upon  a  gala  day, 
The  forehead  of  a  fay. 

In  gardens  you  may  note  amid  the  dearth, 
The  crocus  breaking  earth; 

And  near  the  snowdrops  tender  white  and  green, 
The  violet  in  its  screen. 

But  many  gleams  and  shadows  needs  must  pass 
Along  the  budding  grass, 
And  weeks  go  by,  before  the  enamored  South 
Shall  kiss  the  rose's  mouth.' 

Still  there's  a  sense  of  blossoms  yet  unborn 
In  the  sweet  airs  of  morn; 
One  almost  looks  to  see  the  very  street 
Grow  purple  at  his  feet. 

At  times  a  fragrant  breeze  comes  floating  by, 
And  brings,  you  know  not  why, 
A  feeling  as  when  eager  crowds  await 
Before  a  palace  gate 

Some  wondrous  pageant;  and  you  scarce  would 

start, 

If  from  a  beech's  heart 

A  blue-eyed  Dryad,  stepping  forth,  should  say, 
"Behold  me!  I  am  May!" 

Henry  Timrod. 

QUATORZAIN 

MOST  men  know  love  but  as  a  part  of  life; 
They  hide  it  in  some  corner  of  the  breast, 
Even  from  themselves;  and  only  when  they  rest 


BOOKRA  139 


In  the  brief  pauses  of  that  daily  strife, 
Wherewith  the  world  might  else  be  not  so  rife, 
They  draw  it  forth  (as  one  draws  forth  a  toy 
To  soothe  some  ardent,  kiss-exacting  boy) 
And  hold  it  up  to  sister,  child,  or  wife. 
Ah  me!  why  may  not  love  and  life  be  one? 
Why  walk  we  thus  alone,  when  by  our  side, 
Love,  like  a  visible  god,  might  be  our  guide? 
How  would  the  marts  grow  noble!  and  the  street, 
Worn  like  a  dungeon-floor  by  weary  feet, 
Seem  then  a  golden  court- way  of  the  Sun! 

Henry  Timrod. 

BOOKRA 

As  I  lay  asleep  in  Italy.  —  Shelley. 

ONE  night  I  lay  asleep  in  Africa, 

In  a  closed  garden  by  the  city  gate; 

A  desert  horseman,  furious  and  late, 

Came  wildly  thundering  at  the  massive  bar, 

"Open  in  Allah's  name!   Wake,  Mustapha! 

Slain  is  the  Sultan,  —  treason,  war,  and  hate 

Rage  from  Fez  to  Tetuan!  Open  straight." 

The  watchman  heard  as  thunder  from  afar: 

"Go  to!  In  peace  this  city  lies  asleep; 

To  all-knowing  Allah  't  is  no  news  you  bring;" 

Then  turned  in  slumber  still  his  watch  to  keep. 

At  once  a  nightingale  began  to  sing, 

In  oriental  calm  the  garden  lay,  — 

Panic  and  war  postponed  another  day. 

Charles  Dudley  Warner. 


140    JOHN   TOWNSEND   TROWBRIDGE 

MIDWINTER 

The  speckled  sky  is  dim  with  snow, 

The  light  flakes  falter  and  fall  slow; 

Athwart  the  hill-top,  wrapt  and  pale., 

Silently  drops  a  silvery  vale; 

And  all  the  valley  is  shut  in 

By  flickering  curtains  gray  and  thin. 

But  cheerily  the  chickadee 
Singeth  to  me  on  fence  and  tree; 
The  snow  sails  round  him  as  he  sings, 
White  as  the  down  of  angels'  wings. 

I  watch  the  slow  flakes  as  they  fall 
On  bank  and  brier  and  broken  wall; 
Over  the  orchard,  waste  and  brown, 
All  noiselessly  they  settle  down, 
Tipping  the  apple-boughs,  and  each 
Light  quivering  twig  of  plurn  and  peach. 

On  turf  and  curb  and  bower-roof 
The  snow-storm  spreads  its  ivory  woof; 
It  paves  with  pearl  the  garden- walk; 
And  lovingly  round  tattered  stalk 
And  shivering  stem  its  magic  weaves 
A  mantle  fair  as  lily-leaves. 

The  hooded  beehive,  small  and  low. 
Stands  like  a  maiden  in  the  snow; 
And  the  old  door-slab  is  half  hid 
Under  an  alabaster  lid. 


EVENING  141 


All  day  it  snows:  the  sheeted  post 
Gleams  in  the  dimness  like  a  ghost; 
All  day  the  blasted  oak  has  stood 
A  muffled  wizard  of  the  wood; 
Garland  and  airy  cap  adorn 
The  sumach  and  the  wayside  thorn, 
And  clustering  spangles  lodge  and  shine 
In  the  dark  tresses  of  the  pine. 

The  ragged  bramble,  dwarfed  and  old, 
Shrinks  like  a  beggar  in  the  cold; 
In  surplice  white  the  cedar  stands, 
And  blesses  him  with  priestly  hands. 

Still  cheerily  the  chickadee 

Singeth  to  me  on  fence  and  tree: 

But  in  my  inmost  ear  is  heard 

The  music  of  a  holier  bird; 

And  heavenly  thoughts  as  soft  and  white 

As  snow-flakes,  on  my  soul  alight, 

Clothing  with  love  my  lonely  heart, 

Healing  with  peace  each  bruised  part, 

Till  all  my  being  seems  to  be 

Transfigured  by  their  purity. 

John  Townsend  Trowbridge* 


EVENING 

I  KNOW  the  night  is  near  at  hand. 

The  mists  lie  low  on  hill  and  bay, 
The  autumn  sheaves  are  dewless,  dry; 

But  I  have  had  the  day. 


S.    WEIR   MITCHELL 


Yes,  I  have  had,  dear  Lord,  the  day; 

When  at  Thy  call  I  have  the  night, 
Brief  be  the  twilight  as  I  pass 

From  light  to  dark,  from  dark  to  light. 

S.  Weir  Mitchell. 

OF  ONE  WHO  SEEMED  TO  HAVE 
FAILED 

DEATH  's  but  one  more  to-morrow.  Thou  art  gray 

With  many  a  death  of  many  a  yesterday. 

O  yearning  heart  that  lacked  the  athlete's  force 

And,  stumbling,  fell  upon  the  beaten  course, 

And  looked,  and  saw  with  ever  glazing  eyes 

Some  lower  soul  that  seemed  to  win  the  prize! 

Lo,  Death,  the  just,  who  comes  to  all  alike, 

Life's  sorry  scales  of  right  anew  shall  strike. 

Forth,  through  the  night,  on  unknown  shores  to  win 

The  peace  of  God  unstirred  by  sense  of  sin! 

There  love  without  desire  shall,  like  a  mist 

At  evening  precious  to  the  opening  flower, 

Possess  thy  soul  in  ownership,  and  kissed 

By  viewless  lips,  whose  touch  shall  be  a  dower 

Of  genius  and  of  winged  serenity, 

Thou  shalt  abide  in  realms  of  poesy. 

There  soul  hath  touch  of  soul,  and  there  the  great 

Cast  wide  to  welcome  thee  joy's  golden  gate. 

Freeborn  to  untold  thoughts  that  age  on  age 

Caressed  sweet  singers  in  their  sacred  sleep, 

Thy  soul  shall  enter  on  its  heritage 

Of  God's  unuttered  wisdom.   Thou  shalt  sweep 

With  hand  assured  the  ringing  lyre  of  life, 

Till  the  fierce  anguish  of  its  bitter  strife, 


IN   HARBOR  143 


Its  pain,  death,  discord,  sorrow,  and  despair, 
Break  into  rhythmic  music.   Thou  shalt  share 
The  prophet- joy  that  kept  forever  glad 
God's  poet-souls  when  all  a  world  was  sad. 

Enter  and  live!  Thou  hast  not  lived  before; 

We  were  but  soul-cast  shadows.   Ah,  no  more 

The  heart  shall  bear  the  burdens  of  the  brain; 

Now  shall  the  strong  heart  think,  nor  think  in  vain. 

In  the  dear  company  of  peace,  and  those 

Who  bore  for  man  life's  utmost  agony, 

Thy  soul  shall  climb  to  cliffs  of  still  repose, 

And  see  before  thee  lie  Time's  mystery, 

And  that  which  is  God's  time,  Eternity; 

Whence,  sweeping  over  thee,  dim  myriad  things 

The  awful  centuries  yet  to  be,  in  hosts 

That  stir  the  vast  of  heaven  with  formless  wings, 

Shall  cast  for  thee  their  shrouds  and,  like  to  ghosts, 

Unriddle  all  the  past,  till,  awed  and  still, 

Tuy  soul  the  secret  hath  of  good  and  ill. 

S.  Weir  Mitchell 


IN  HARBOR 

L  THINK  it  is  over,  over, 

I  think  it  is  over  at  last; 
Voices  of  foeman  and  lover, 

The  sweet  and  the  bitter,  have  passed: 
Life,  like  a  tempest  of  ocean, 
Hath  outblown  its  ultimate  blast: 
There's  but  a  faint  sobbing  to  seaward 
While  the  calm  of  the  tide  deepens  leeward, 


144         PAUL   HAMILTON   HAYNE 

And  behold!   like  the  welcoming  quiver. 
Of  heart-pulses  throbbed  through  the  river, 

Those  lights  in  the  harbor  at  last, 

The  heavenly  harbor  at  last! 

I  feel  it  is  over,  over, 

For  the  winds  and  the  waters  surcease; 
Ah,  few  were  the  days  of  the  rover 

That  smiled  in  the  beauty  of  peace! 
And  distant  and  dim  was  the  omen 
That  hinted  redress  or  release: 
From  the  ravage  of  life,  and  its  riot, 
What  marvel  I  yearn  for  the  quiet 

Which  bides  in  the  harbor  at  last,  — 
For  the  lights  with  their  welcoming  quiver, 
That  throb  through  the  sanctified  river, 

Which  girdle  the  harbor  at  last, 

This  heavenly  harbor  at  last? 

I  know  it  is  over,  over, 

I  know  it  is  over  at  last! 
Down  sail!  the  sheathed  anchor  uncover, 

For  the  stress  of  the  voyage  has  passed: 
Life,  like  a  tempest  of  ocean, 

Hath  outbreathed  its  ultimate  blast: 
There's  but  a  faint  sobbing  to  seaward, 
While  the  calm  of  the  tide  deepens  leeward, 
And  behold!  like  the  welcoming  quiver 
•     Of  heart-pulses  throbbed  through  the  river, 

Those  lights  in  the  harbor  at  last, 

The  heavenly  harbor  at  last ! 

Paul  Hamilton  Hayne. 


I   FAIN   WOULD   LINGER   YET     145 

A  LITTLE  WHILE  I  FAIN  WOULD 
LINGER  YET 

A  LITTLE  while  (my  life  is  almost  set!) 

I  fain  would  pause  along  the  downward  way, 
Musing  an  hour  in  this  sad  sunset-ray, 

While,  Sweet,  our  eyes  with  tender  tears  are  wet: 

A  little  hour  I  fain  would  linger  yet. 

A  little  while  I  fain  would  linger  yet, 

All  for  love's  sake,  for  love  that  cannot  tire; 
Though  fervid  youth  be  dead,  with  youth's  desire, 

And  hope  has  faded  to  a  vague  regret, 

A  little  while  I  fain  would  linger  yet. 

A  little  while  I  fain  would  linger  hero: 

Behold!  who  knows  what  strange,  mysterious  bars 
'Twixt  souls  that  love  may  rise  in  other  stars? 

Nor  can  love  deem  the  face  of  death  is  fair: 

A  little  while  I  still  would  linger  here. 

A  little  while  I  yearn  to  hold  thee  fast, 

Hand  locked  in  hand,  and  loyal  heart  to  heart; 
(O  pitying  Christ!  those  woeful  words,  "We  part"!) 
So,  ere  the  darkness  fall,  the  light  be  past, 
A  little  while  I  fain  would  hold  thee  fast. 

A  little  while,  when  light  and  twilight  meet,  — 
Behind,  our  broken  years;  before,  the  deep 
Weird  wonder  of  the  last  unfathomed  sleep,  — 
A  little  while  I  still  would  clasp  thee,  Sweet, 
^  little  while,  when  night  and  twilight  meet. 


146 EMILY  DICKINSON 

A  little  while  I  fain  would  linger  here; 

Behold!  who  knows  what  soul-dividing  bars 
Earth's  faithful  loves  may  part  in  other  stars? 

Nor  can  love  deem  the  face  of  death  is  fair: 

A  little  while  I  still  would  linger  here. 

Paul  Hamilton  Hayne. 

PARTING 

MY  life  closed  twice  before  its  close; 

It  yet  remains  to  see 
If  Immortality  unveil 

A  third  event  to  me, 

So  huge,  so  hopeless  to  conceive, 

As  these  that  twice  befell : 
Parting  is  all  we  know  of  heaven, 

And  all  we  need  of  hell. 

Emily  Dicldnson. 

CHOICE 

OF  all  the  souls  that  stand  create 
I  have  elected  one, 
When  sense  from  spirit  files  away 
And  subterfuge  is  done; 

When  that  which  is  and  that  which  was 

Apart,  intrinsic,  stand, 

And  this  brief  tragedy  of  flesh 

Is  shifted  like  a  sand; 

When  figures  show  their  royal  front 

And  mists  are  carved  away,  — 

Behold  the  atom  I  preferred 

To  all  the  lists  of  clay!        EmUy  Dickinsont 


CHARTLESS  147 

SUSPENSE 

ELYSIUM  is  as  far  as  to 
The  very  nearest  room, 
If  in  that  room  a  friend  await 
Felicity  or  doom. 

What  fortitude  the  soul  contains, 
That  it  can  so  endure 
The  accent  of  a  coming  foot, 
The  opening  of  a  door. 

Emily  Dickinson. 

PEACE 

I  MANY  times  thought  peace  had  come, 
When  peace  was  far  away; 
As  wrecked  men  deem  they  sight  the  land 
At  centre  of  the  sea, 

And  struggle  slacker,  but  to  prove, 
As  hopelessly  as  I, 
How  many  the  fictitious  shores 
Before  the  harbor  lie. 

Emily  Dickinson, 

CHARTLESS 

I  NEVER  saw  a  moor, 

I  never  saw  the  sea; 

Yet  know  I  how  the  heather  looks, 

And  what  a  wave  must  be. 


143        ELIZABETH   AKERS   ALLEN 

I  never  spoke  with  God, 
Nor  visited  in  heaven; 
Yet  certain  am  I  of  the  spot 
As  if  the  chart  were  given. 

Emily  Dickinson. 

MY  DEARLING 

MY  Dearling !  —  thus,  in  days  long  fled, 
In  spite  of  creed  and  court  and  queen, 
King  Henry  wrote  to  Anne  Boleyn,  — 

The  dearest  pet  name  ever  said, 
And  dearly  purchased,  too,  I  ween! 

Poor  child!  she  played  a  losing  game: 
She  won  a  heart,  —  so  Henry  said,  — 
But  ah,  the  price  she  gave  instead ! 

Men's  hearts,  at  best,  are  but  a  name: 
She  paid  for  Henry's  with  her  head ! 

You  count  men's  hearts  as  something  worth? 
Not  I:  were  I  a  maid  unwed, 
I  'd  rather  have  my  own  fair  head 

Than  all  the  lovers  on  the  earth, 
Than  all  the  hearts  that  ever  bled! 

**My  Dearling!"  with  a  love  most  true, 
Having  no  fear  of  creed  or  queen, 
I  breathe  that  name  my  prayers  between; 
But  it  shall  never  bring  to  you 
The  hapless  fate  of  Anue  Boleyn! 

Elizabeth  Akers  Allen. 


CORONATION  149 


SEA-BIRDS 

O  LONESOME  sea-gull,  floating  far 
Over  the  ocean's  icy  waste, 

Aimless  and  wide  thy  wanderings  are, 
Forever  vainly  seeking  rest:  — 
Where  is  thy  mate,  and  where  thy  nest? 

'Twixt  wintry  sea  and  wintry  sky, 
Cleaving  the  keen  air  with  thy  breast, 

Thou  sailest  slowly,  solemnly; 

No  fetter  on  thy  wing  is  pressed :  — 
Where  is  thy  mate,  and  where  thy  nest? 

O  restless,  homeless  human  soul, 

Following  for  aye  thy  nameless  quest, 

The  gulls  float,  and  the  billows  roll; 

Thou  watchest  still,  and  questionest:  — 

Where  is  thy  mate,  and  where  thy  nest? 

Elizabeth  Akers 


CORONATION 

AT  the  king's  gate  the  subtle  noon 

Wove  filmy  yellow  nets  of  sun; 
Into  the  drowsy  snare  too  soon 

The  guards  fell  one  by  one. 

Through  the  king's  gate,  unquestioned  then, 
A  beggar  went,  and  laughed,  "This  brings 

Me  chance,  at  last,  to  see  if  men 
Fare  better,  being  kings." 


150  HELEN   HUNT   JACKSON 

The  king  sat  bowed  beneath  his  crown, 
Propping  his  face  with  listless  hand, 

Watching  the  hour-glass  sifting  down 
Too  slow  its  shining  sand. 

"Poor  man,  what  wouldst  thou  have  of  me?*1 

The  beggar  turned,  and,  pitying, 
Replied  like  one  in  dream,  "Of  thee, 
Nothing.   I  want  the  king." 

Uprose  the  king,  and  from  his  head 
Shook  off  the  crown  and  threw  it  by. 

"O  man,  thou  must  have  known,"  he  said 
"A  greater  king  than  I." 

Through  all  the  gates,  unquestioned  then, 
Went  king  and  beggar  hand  in  hand. 

Whispered  the  king,  "Shall  I  know  wher 
Before  His  throne  I  stand?" 

The  beggar  laughed.   Free  winds  in  haste 
Were  wiping  from  the  king's  hot  brow 

The  crimson  lines  the  crown  had  traced. 
"This  is  his  presence  now.'1 

At  the  king's  gate  the  crafty  noon 
Unwove  its  yellow  nets  of  sun; 

Out  of  their  sleep  in  terror  soon 
The  guards  waked  one  by  one. 

"Ho  here!  Ho  there!  Has  no  man  seen 
The  king?"   The  cry  ran  to  and  fro; 
Beggar  and  king  they  laughed,  I  ween, 
The  laugh  that  free  men  know. 


SPINNING  151 


On  the  king's  gate  the  moss  grew  gray; 

The  king  came  not.  They  called  him  dead; 
And  made  his  eldest  son  one  day 

Slave  in  his  father's  stead. 

Helen  Hunt  Jackson. 

SPINNING 

LIKE  a  blind  spinner  in  the  sun, 

I  tread  my  days; 
I  know  that  all  the  threads  will  run 

Appointed  ways; 

I  know  each  day  will  bring  its  task, 
And,  being  blind,  no  more  I  ask. 

I  do  not  know  the  use  or  name 

Of  that  I  spin: 
I  only  know  that  some  one  came, 

And  laid  within 

My  hand  the  thread,  and  said,  "  Since  you 
Are  blind,  but  one  thing  you  can  do." 

Sometimes  the  threads  so  rough  and  fast 

And  tangled  fly, 
I  know  wild  storms  are  sweeping  past, 

And  fear  that  I 

Shall  fall;  but  dare  not  try  to  find 
A  safer  place,  since  I  am  blind. 

I  know  not  why,  but  I  am  sure 

That  tint  and  place, 
In  some  great  fabric  to  endure 

Past  time  and  race, 


152    EDMUND   CLARENCE   STEDMAN 

My  threads  will  have;  so  from  the  first, 
Though  blind,  I  never  felt  accurst. 

I  think,  perhaps,  this  trust  has  sprung 

From  one  short  word 
Said  over  me  when  I  was  young,  — 

So  young,  I  heard 

It,  knowing  not  that  God's  name  signed 
My  brow,  and  sealed  me  His,  though  blind. 

But  whether  this  be  seal  or  sign 

Within,  without, 
It  matters  not.   The  bond  divine 

I  never  doubt. 

I  know  He  set  me  here,  and  still, 
And  glad,  and  blind,  I  wait  His  will; 

But  listen,  listen,  day  by  day, 

To  hear  their  tread 
Who  bear  the  finished  web  away, 

And  cut  the  thread, 
And  bring  God's  message  in  the  sun, 
"Thou  poor  blind  spinner,  work  is  done." 

Helen  Hunt  Jackson. 

MORS  BENEFICA 

GIVE  me  to  die  unwitting  of  the  day, 

And  stricken  in  Life's  brave  heat,  with  senses  clear: 
Not  swathed  and  couched  until  the  lines  appear 
Of  Death's  wan  mask  upon  this  withering  clay, 
But  as  that  old  man  eloquent  made  way 


FALSTAFF'S    SONG 


From  Earth,  a  nation's  conclave  hushed  anear; 

Or  as  the  chief  whose  fates,  that  he  may  hear 
The  victory,  one  glorious  moment  stay. 
Or,  if  not  thus,  then  with  no  cry  in  vain, 

No  ministrant  beside  to  wrard  and  weep, 
Hand  upon  helm  I  would  my  quittance  gain 

In  some  wild  turmoil  of  the  waters  deep, 

And  sink  content  into  a  dreamless  sleep 
(Spared  grave  and  shroud)  below  the  ancient  main. 
Edmund  Clarence  Stedman. 

FALSTAFF'S  SONG 

WHERE'S  he  that  died  o'  Wednesday? 

What  place  on  earth  hath  he? 
A  tailor's  yard  beneath,  I  wot, 

Where  worms  approaching  be; 
For  the  wight  that  died  o'  Wednesday, 

Just  laid  the  light  below, 
Is  dead  as  the  varlet  turned  to  clay 

A  score  of  years  ago. 

Where's  he  that  died  o'  Sabba'  day? 

Good  Lord,  I'd  not  be  he! 
The  best  of  days  is  foul  enough 

From  this  world's  fare  to  flee; 
And  the  saint  that  died  o'  Sabba'  day, 

With  his  grave  turf  yet  to  grow, 
Is  dead  as  the  sinner  brought  to  pray 

A  hundred  years  ago. 

Where's  he  that  died  o'  yesterday? 
What  better  chance  hath  he 


154    EDMUND   CLARENCE   STEDMAN 

To  clink  the  can  and  toss  the  pot 

When  this  night's  junkets  be? 
For  the  lad  that  died  o'  yesterday 

Is  just  as  dead  —  ho !  ho !  — 
As  the  whoreson  knave  men  laid  away 

A  thousand  years  ago. 

Edmund  Clarence  Stedman. 

PROVENCAL  LOVERS 

AUCASSIN    AND    NICOLETTE 

WITHIN  the  garden  of  Beaucaire 
He  met  her  by  a  secret  stair,  — 
The  night  was  centuries  ago. 
Said  Aucassin,  "My  love,  my  pet, 
These  old  confessors  vex  me  so! 
They  threaten  all  the  pains  of  hell 
Unless  I  give  you  up,  ma  belle"  ;  — 
Said  Aucassin  to  Nicolette. 

"Now,  who  should  there  in  Heaven  be 
To  fill  your  place,  ma  tres-douce  mie? 
To  reach  that  spot  I  little  care ! 
There  all  the  droning  priests  are  met; 
All  the  old  cripples,  too,  are  there 
That  unto  shrines  and  altars  cling 
To  filch  the  Peter-pence  we  bring";  — 
Said  Aucassin  to  Nicolette. 

"There  are  the  barefoot  monks  and  friars 
With  gowns  well  tattered  by  the  briars, 
The  saints  who  lift  their  eyes  and  whine: 
I  like  them  not  —  a  starveling  set! 


PROVENCAL   LOVERS  155 

Who'd  care  with  folk  like  these  to  dine? 
The  other  road  't  were  just  as  well 
That  you  and  I  should  take,  ma  belle!"  — 
Said  Aucassin  to  Nicolette. 

"To  purgatory  I  would  go 
With  pleasant  comrades  whom  we  know, 
Fair  scholars,  minstrels,  lusty  knights 
Whose  deeds  the  land  will  not  forget, 
The  captains  of  a  hundred  fighU, 
The  men  of  valor  and  degree: 
We'll  join  that  gallant  company,"  — 
Said  Aucassin  to  Nicolette. 

"  There,  too,  are  jousts  and  joyance  rare, 
And  beauteous  ladies  debonair, 
The  pretty  dames,  the  pretty  brides, 
Who  with  their  wedded  lords  coquet 
And  have  a  friend  or  two  besides,  — 
And  all  in  gold  and  trappings  gay, 
With  furs,  and  crests  in  vair  and  gray,"  — 
Said  Aucassin  to  Nicolette. 

"Sweet  players  on  the  cithern  strings, 
And  they  who  roam  the  world  like  kings, 
Are  gathered  there,  so  blithe  and  free! 
Pardie!  I'd  join  them  now,  my  pet, 
If  you  went  also,  ma  douce  mie! 
The  joys  of  heaven  I  'd  forego 
To  have  you  with  me  there  below,"  — 
Said  Aucassin  to  Nicolette. 

Edmund  Clarence  Stedman. 


156  ANNIE   FIELDS 

THEOCRITUS 

AY!  Unto  thee  belong 

The  pipe  and  song, 

Theocritus,  — 

Loved  by  the  satyr  and  the  faun! 

To  thee  the  olive  and  the  vine, 

To  thee  the  Mediterranean  pine, 

And  the  soft  lapping  sea! 

Thine,  Bacchus, 

Thine,  the  blood-red  revels, 

Thine,  the  bearded  goat! 

Soft  valleys  unto  thee, 

And  Aphrodite's  shrine, 

And  maidens  veiled  in  falling  robes  of  lawn! 

But  unto  us,  to  us, 

The  stalwart  glories  of  the  North; 

Ours  is  the  sounding  main, 

And  ours  the  voices  uttering  forth 

By  midnight  round  these  cliffs  a  mighty  strain; 

A  tale  of  viewless  islands  in  the  deep 

Washed  by  the  waves'  white  fire; 

Of  mariners  rocked  asleep, 

In  the  great  cradle,  far  from  Grecian  ire 

Of  Neptune  and  his  train; 

To  us,  to  us, 

The  dark-leaved  shadow  and  the  shining  birch, 

The  flight  of  gold  through  hollow  woodlands 

driven, 

Soft  dying  of  the  year  with  many  a  sigh, 
These,  all,  to  us  are  given ! 
And  eyes  that  eager  evermore  shall  search 
The  hidden  seed,  and  searching  find  again 


INDIRECTION  157 

Unfading  blossoms  of  a  fadeless  spring; 

These,  these,  to  us! 

The  sacred  youth  and  maid, 

Coy  and  half  afraid; 

The  sorrowful  earthly  pall, 

Winter  and  wintry  rain, 

And  autumn's  gathered  grain, 

With  whispering  music  in  their  fall; 

These  unto  us! 

And  unto  thee,  Theocritus, 

To  thee, 

The  'immortal  childhood  of  the  world, 

The  laughing  waters  of  an  inland  sea, 

And  beckoning  signal  of  a  sail  unfurled; 

Annie  Fields 

INDIRECTION 

FAIR  are  the  flowers  and  the  children,  but  their  subtle 
suggestion  is  fairer; 

Rare  is  the  roseburst  of  dawn,  but  the  secret  that 
clasps  it  is  rarer; 

Sweet  the  exultance  of  song,  but  the  strain  that  pre- 
cedes it  is  sweeter; 

And  never  was  poem  yet  writ,  but  the  meaning  out- 
mastered  the  meter. 

Never  a  daisy  that  grows,  but  a  mystery  guideth  the 

growing; 
Never  a  river  that  flows,  but  a  majesty  scepters  the 

flowing; 
Never  a  Shakespeare  that  soared,  but  a  stronger  than 

he  did  enfold  him, 
Nor  ever  a  prophet  foretells,  but  a  mightier  seer  hath 

foretold  him. 


158  NORA   PERRY 

Back  of  the  canvas  that  throbs,  the  painter  is  hinted 

and  hidden; 
Into  the  statue  that  breathes,  the  soul  of  the  sculptor 

is  bidden; 
Under  the  joy  that  is  felt,  lie  the  infinite  issues  of 

feeling; 
Crowning  the  glory  revealed,  is  the  glory  that  crowns 

the  revealing. 

Great  are  the  symbols  of  being,  but  that  which  is 

symboled  is  greater; 
Vast  the  create  and  beheld,  but  vaster  the  inward 

creator; 
Back  of  the  sound  broods  the  silence,  back  of  the  gift 

stands  the  giving; 
Back  of  the  hand  that  receives  thrill  the  sensitive 

nerves  of  receiving. 

Space  is  as  nothing  to  spirit,  the  deed  is  outdone  by  the 

doing; 
The  heart  of  the  wooer  is  warm,  but  warmer  the  heart 

of  the  wooing; 
And  up  from  the  pits  where  these  shiver,  and  up  from 

the  heights  where  those  shine, 
Twin  voices  and  shadows  swim  starward,  and  the 

essence  of  life  is  divine. 

Richard  Real/, 

SOME  DAY  OF  DAYS 

SOME  day,  some  day  of  days,  threading  the  street 

With  idle,  heedless  pace, 

Unlocking  for  such  grace 

I  shall  behold  your  face! 
Some  day,  some  day  of  days,  thus  may  we  meet. 


SUNDERED  159 

Perchance  the  sun  may  shine  from  skies  of  May, 

Or  winter's  icy  chill 

Touch  whitely  vale  and  hill. 

What  matter?  I  shall  thrill 
Through  every  vein  with  summer  on  that  day. 

Once  more  life's  perfect  youth  will  all  come  back, 

And  for  a  moment  there 

I  shall  stand  fresh  and  fair, 

And  drop  the  garment  care; 
Once  more  my  perfect  youth  will  nothing  lack, 

I  shut  my  eyes  now,  thinking  how  't  will  be  — 

How  face  to  face  each  soul 

Will  slip  its  long  control, 

Forget  the  dismal  dole 
Of  dreary  Fate's  dark,  separating  sea; 

And  glance  to  glance,  and  hand  to  hand  in  greet* 
ing, 

The  past  with  all  its  fears, 
Its  silences  and  tears, 
Its  lonely,  yearning  years, 
Shall  vanish  in  the  moment  of  that  meeting. 

Nvra  Perr& 

SUNDERED 

I  CHALLENGE  not  the  oracle 

That  drove  you  from  my  board: 

I  bow  before  the  dark  decree 
That  scatters  as  I  hoard. 


100    LOUISE   CHANDLER   MOUITON 

Ye  vanished  like  the  sailing  ships 

That  ride  far  out  at  sea : 
I  murmur,  as  your  farewell  dies, 

And  your  forms  float  from  me. 

Ah!  ties  are  sundered  in  this  hour; 

No  tide  of  fortune  rare 
Shall  bring  me  hearts  I  owned  before, 

And  my  love's  loss  repair. 

When  voyagers  make  a  foreign  port, 

And  leave  their  precious  prize, 
Returning  home,  they  bear  for  freight 

A  bartered  merchandise. 

Alas!  when  ye  come  back  to  me, 

And  come  not  as  of  yore, 
But  with  your  alien  wealth  and  peace, 

Can  we  be  lovers  more? 

I  gave  you  up  to  go  your  ways, 

O  you  whom  I  adored! 
Love  hath  no  ties  but  Destiny 

Shall  cut  them  with  a  sword. 

Sidney  Henry  Morse* 

HIC  JACET 

So  Love  is  dead  that  has  been  quick  so  long! 
Close,  then,  his  eyes,  and  bear  him  to  his  rest, 
With  eglantine  and  myrtle  on  his  breast, 

fVnd  leave  him  there,  their  pleasant  scents  among: 


THE   LAST   GOOD-BYE  161 

And  chant  a  sweet  and  melancholy  song 

About  the  charms  whereof  he  was  possessed, 
And  how  of  all  things  he  was  loveliest, 

And  to  compare  with  aught  were  him  to  wrong. 

Leave  him  beneath  the  still  and  solemn  stars, 
That  gather  and  look  down  from  their  far  place 
With  their  long  calm  our  brief  woes  to  deride, 
Until  the  Sun  the  Morning's  gate  unbars 

And  mocks,  in  turn,  our  sorrows  with  his  face;  — 
And  yet,  had  Love  been  Love,  he  had  not  died. 

Louise  Chandler  Moulton. 


THE  LAST  GOOD-BYE 

How  shall  we  know  it  is  the  last  good-bye? 
The  skies  will  not  be  darkened  in  that  hour, 
No  sudden  blight  will  fall  on  leaf  or  flower, 

No  single  bird  will  hush  its  careless  cry, 

And  you  will  hold  my  hands,  and  smile  or  sigh 
Just  as  before.  Perchance  the  sudden  tears 
In  your  dear  eyes  will  answer  to  my  fears; 

But  there  will  come  no  voice  of  prophecy,  — 

No  voice  to  whisper,  "Now,  and  not  again, 

Space  for  last  words,  last  kisses,  and  last  prayer, 

For  all  the  wild,  unmitigated  pain 

Of  those  who,  parting,  clasp  hands  with  despair." 

"Who  knows?"  We  say,  but  doubt  and  fear  remain. 
Would  any  choose  to  part  thus  unaware? 

Louise  Chandler  Moulton. 


162  CELIA   THAXTER 

BALLAD 

IN  the  summer  even, 

While  yet  the  dew  was  hoar, 
I  went  plucking  purple  pansies, 

Till  my  love  should  come  to  shore. 
The  fishing-lights  their  dances 

Were  keeping  out  at  sea, 
And  come,  I  sang,  my  true  love, 

Come  hasten  home  to  me! 

But  the  sea,  it  fell  a-moaning, 

And  the  white  gulls  rocked  thereon; 
And  the  young  moon  dropped  from  heaven, 

And  the  lights  hid  one  by  one. 
All  silently  their  glances 

Slipped  down  the  cruel  sea, 
And  wait !  cried  the  night  and  wind  and  storm,  — 

Wait,  till  I  come  to  thee! 

Harriet  Prescott  Spofford. 

THE  SANDPIPER 

ACROSS  the  narrow  beach  we  flit, 

One  little  sandpiper  and  I, 
And  fast  I  gather,  bit  by  bit, 

The  scattered  driftwood  bleached  and  dry. 
The  wild  waves  reach  their  hands  for  it, 

The  wild  wind  raves,  the  tide  runs  high, 
As  up  and  down  the  beach  we  flit,  — 

One  little  sandpiper  and  I. 

Above  our  heads  the  sullen  clouds 
Scud  black  and  swift  across  the  sky; 


IRELAND  163 


Like  silent  ghosts  in  misty  shrouds 
Stand  out  the  white  lighthouses  high. 

Almost  as  far  as  eye  can  reach 
I  see  the  close-reefed  vessels  fly, 

As  fast  we  flit  along  the  beach,  — 
One  little  sandpiper  and  I. 

I  watch  him  as  he  skims  along, 

Uttering  his  sweet  and  mournful  cry. 
He  starts  not  at  my  fitful  song, 

Or  flash  of  fluttering  drapery. 
He  has  no  thought  of  any  wrong; 

He  scans  me  with  a  fearless  eye: 
Staunch  friends  are  we,  well  tried  and  strong, 

The  little  sandpiper  and  I. 

Comrade,  where  wilt  thou  be  to-night 

When  the  loosed  storm  breaks  furiously? 
My  driftwood  fire  will  burn  so  bright! 

To  what  warm  shelter  canst  thou  fly? 
I  do  not  fear  for  thee,  though  wroth 

The  tempest  rushes  through  the  sky: 
For  are  we  not  God's  children  both, 

Thou,  little  sandpiper,  and  I? 

Celia  Thaxter. 

IRELAND 

A  GREAT,  still  Shape,  alone, 

She  sits  (her  harp  has  fallen)  on  the  sand. 
And  sees  her  children,  one  by  one,  depart:  — 
Her  cloak  (that  hides  what  sins  beside  her  own!) 

Wrapped  fold  on  fold  about  her.   Lo; 
She  comforts  her  fierce  heart, 


164       THOMAS   BAILEY   ALDRICH 

As  wailing  some,  and  some  gay-singing  go, 
With  the  far  vision  of  that  Greater  Land 

Deep  in  the  Atlantic  skies, 

St.  Brandan's  Paradise! 

Another  Woman  there, 

Mighty  and  wondrous  fair, 
Stands  on  her  shore-rock :  —  one  uplifted  hand 

Holds  a  quick-piercing  light 

That  keeps  long  sea-ways  bright; 
She  beckons  with  the  other,  saying  "Come, 

O  landless,  shelterless, 
Sharp-faced  with  hunger,  worn  with  long  distress:  — 

Come  hither,  finding  home! 
Lo,  my  new  fields  of  harvest,  open,  free, 

By  winds  of  blessing  blown, 
Whose   golden   corn -blades   shake   from    sea   to 

Fields  without  walls  that  all  the  people  own!" 

John  James  Piatt 

MEMORY 

MY  mind  lets  go  a  thousand  things, 
Like  dates  of  wars  and  deaths  of  king.?, 
And  yet  recalls  the  very  hour  — 
'T  was  noon  by  yonder  village  tower, 
And  on  the  last  blue  noon  in  May 
The  wind  came  briskly  up  this  way, 
Crisping  the  brook  beside  the  road; 
Then,  pausing  here,  set  down  its  load 
Of  pine-scents,  and  shook  listlessly 
Two  petals  from  that  wild-rose  tree. 

Thomas  Bailey  Aldrich. 


SONG   FROM   THE   PERSIAN        165 

PALABRAS  CARINOSAS 

GOOD-NIGHT!  I  have  to  say  good-night 

To  such  a  host  of  peerless  things ! 

Good-night  unto  the  slender  hand 

All  queenly  with  its  weight  of  rings; 

Good-night  to  fond,  uplifted  eyes, 

Good-night  to  chestnut  braids  of  hair, 

Good-night  unto  the  perfect  mouth, 

And  all  the  sweetness  nestled  there  — 

The  snowy  hand  detains  me,  then 
I'll  have  to  say  good-night  again! 

But  there  will  come  a  time,  my  love, 

When,  if  I  read  our  stars  aright, 

I  shall  not  linger  by  this  porch 

With  my  farewells.  Till  then,  good-night! 

You  wish  the  time  were  now?  And  I. 

You  do  not  blush  to  wish  it  so? 

You  would  have  blushed  yourself  to  death 

To  own  so  much  a  year  ago  — 

What,  both  these  snowy  hands!  ah,  then 
I  '11  have  to  say  good-night  again ! 

Thomas  Bailey  Aldricfu 

SONG  FROM  THE  PERSIAN 

AH,  sad  are  they  who  know  not  love, 
But,  far  from  passion's  tears  and  smiles, 
Drift  down  a  moonless  sea,  beyond 
The  silvery  coasts  of  fairy  isles. 

And  sadder  they  whose  longing  lips 
Kiss  empty  air,  and  never  touch 


166       THOMAS   BAILEY   ALDRICH 

The  dear  warm  mouth  of  those  they  love  — 
Waiting,  wasting,  suffering  much. 

But  clear  as  amber,  fine  as  musk, 
Is  life  to  those  who,  pilgrim-wise, 
Move  hand  in  hand  from  dawn  to  dusk, 
Each  morning  nearer  Paradise. 

Ah,  not  for  them  shall  angels  pray! 
They  stand  in  everlasting  light, 
They  walk  in  Allah's  smile  by  day, 
And  slumber  in  his  heart  by  night. 

Thomas  Bailey  Aldrich. 

THE  FLIGHT  OF  THE  GODDESS 

A  MAN  should  live  in  a  garret  aloof, 
And  have  few  friends,  and  go  poorly  clad, 
With  an  old  hat  stopping  the  chink  in  the  roof, 
To  keep  the  Goddess  constant  and  glad. 

Of  old,  when  I  walked  on  a  rugged  way, 
And  gave  much  work  for  but  little  bread, 
The  Goddess  dwelt  with  me  night  and  day, 
Sat  at  my  table,  haunted  my  bed. 

The  narrow,  mean  attic,  I  see  it  now!  — 
Its  window  o'erlooking  the  city's  tiles, 
The  sunset's  fires,  and  the  clouds  of  snow, 
And  the  river  wandering  miles  and  miles. 

Just  one  picture  hung  in  the  room, 
The  saddest  story  that  Art  can  tell  — 


THE   FLIGHT   OF  THE   GODDESS    167 

Dante  and  Virgil  in  lurid  gloom 
Watching  the  Lovers  float  through  Hell. 

Wretched  enough  was  I  sometimes, 
Pinched,  and  harassed  with  vain  desires; 
But  thicker  than  clover  sprung  the  rhymes 
As  I  dwelt  like  a  sparrow  among  the  spires. 

Midnight  filled  my  slumbers  with  song; 
Music  haunted  my  dreams  by  day. 
Now  I  listen  and  wait  and  long, 
But  the  Delphian  airs  have  died  away. 

I  wonder  and  wonder  how  it  befell : 
Suddenly  I  had  friends  in  crowds; 
I  bade  the  house-tops  a  long  farewell ; 
" Good-bye,"  I  cried,  "to  the  stars  and  clouds! 

"But  thou,  rare  soul,  thou  hast  dwelt  with  me, 
Spirit  of  Poesy!  thou  divine 
Breath  of  the  morning,  thou  shalt  be, 
Goddess!  for  ever  and  ever  mine." 

And  the  woman  I  loved  was  now  my  bride, 
And  the  house  I  wanted  was  my  own; 
I  turned  to  the  Goddess  satisfied  — 
But  the  Goddess  had  somehow  flown. 

Flown,  and  I  fear  she  will  never  return; 
I  am  much  too  sleek  and  happy  for  her, 
Whose  lovers  must  hunger  and  waste  and  burn, 
Ere  the  beautiful  heathen  heart  will  stir. 


163       THOMAS   BAILEY   ALDRICH 

I  call  —  but  she  does  not  stoop  to  my  cry; 
I  wait  —  but  she  lingers,  and  ah !  so  long ! 
It  was  not  so  in  the  years  gone  by, 
When  she  touched  my  lips  with  chrism  of  song. 

I  swear  I  will  get  me  a  garret  again, 
And  adore,  like  a  Parsee,  the  sunset's  fires, 
And  lure  the  Goddess,  by  vigil  and  pain, 
Up  with  the  sparrows  among  the  spires. 

For  a  man  should  live  in  a  garret  aloof, 
And  have  few  friends,  and  go  poorly  clad, 
With  an  old  hat  stopping  the  chink  in  the  roof, 
To  keep  the  Goddess  constant  and  glad. 

Thomas  Bailey  Aldrich- 

ENAMORED  ARCHITECT  OF  AIRY 
RHYME 

ENAMORED  architect  of  airy  rhyme, 

Build  as  thou  wilt;  heed  not  what  each  man  says: 

Good  souls,  but  innocent  of  dreamers'  ways, 

Will  come,  and  marvel  why  thou  wastest  time; 

Others,  beholding  how  thy  turrets  climb 

'Twixt  theirs  and  heaven,  will  hate  thee  all  thy  days; 

But  most  beware  of  those  who  come  to  praise. 

O  Wondersmith,  O  worker  in  sublime 

And  heaven-sent  dreams,  let  art  be  all  in  all; 

Build  as  thou  wilt,  unspoiled  by  praise  or  blame, 

Build  as  thou  wilt,  and  as  thy  light  is  given: 

Then,  if  at  last  the  airy  structure  fall, 

Dissolve,  and  vanish  —  take  thyself  no  shame. 

They  fail,  and  they  alone,  who  have  not  striven. 

Thomas  Bailey  Aldrich. 


REFUGE  169 


AFTER  WINGS 

THIS  was  your  butterfly,  you  see,  — 

His  fine  wings  made  him  vain: 
The  caterpillars  crawl,  but  he 

Passed  them  in  rich  disdain.  — 
My  pretty  boy  says,  "Let  him  be 

Only  a  worm  again!" 

O  child,  when  things  have  learned  to  wear 

Wings  once,  they  must  be  fain 
To  keep  them  always  high  and  fair: 

Think  of  the  creeping  pain 
Which  even  a  butterfly  must  bear 

To  be  a  worm  again ! 

Sarah  M.  B.  Piati 

REFUGE 

SET  your  face  to  the  sea,  fond  lover,  — 

Cold  in  darkness  the  sea-winds  blow! 
Waves  and  clouds  and  the  night  will  cover 

All  your  passion  and  all  your  woe : 
Sobbing  waves,  and  the  death  within  them, 

Sweet  as  the  lips  that  once  you  prest  — 
Pray  that  your  hopeless  heart  may  win  them! 

Pray  that  your  weary  life  may  rest! 

Set  your  face  to  the  stars,  fond  lover,  — 
Calm,  and  silent,  and  bright,  and  true!  — 

They  will  pity  you,  they  will  hover 
Softly  over  the  deep  for  you. 

Winds  of  heaven  will  sigh  your  dirges, 
Tears  of  heaven  for  you  be  spent, 


170  WILLIAM   WINTER 

And  sweet  for  you  will  the  murmuring  surges 
Pour  the  wail  of  their  low  lament. 

Set  your  face  to  the  lonely  spaces, 

Vast  and  gaunt,  of  the  midnight  sky! 
There,  with  the  drifting  cloud,  your  place  is, 

There  with  the  griefs  that  cannot  die. 
Love  is  a  mocking  fiend's  derision, 

Peace  a  phantom,  and  faith  a  snare! 
Make  the  hope  of  your  heart  a  vision  — 

Look  to  heaven,  and  find  it  there! 

William  Winter. 


THE  RUBICON 

ONE  other  bitter  drop  to  drink, 

And  then  —  no  more ! 
One  little  pause  upon  the  brink, 

And  then  —  go  o'er! 
One  sigh  —  and  then  the  lib 'rant  morn 

Of  perfect  day, 
When  my  free  spirit,  newly  born, 

Will  soar  away ! 

One  pang  —  and  I  shall  rend  the  thrall 

Where  grief  abides, 
And  generous  Death  will  show  me  all 

That  now  he  hides; 
And,  lucid  in  that  second  birth, 

I  shall  discern 
What  all  the  sages  of  the  earth 

Have  died  to  learn. 


WHAT   SHALL   IT  PROFIT?        171 

One  motion  —  and  the  stream  is  crossed, 

So  dark,  so  deep! 
And  I  shall  triumph,  or  be  lost 

In  endless  sleep. 
Then,  onward !  Whatso'er  my  fate, 

I  shall  not  care! 
Nor  Sin  nor  Sorrow,  Love  nor  Hate, 

Can  touch  me  there. 

William  Winter. 

IF 

YES,  death  is  at  the  bottom  of  the  cup, 

And  every  one  that  lives  must  drink  it  up; 

And  yet  between  the  sparkle  at  the  top 

And  the  black  lees  where  lurks  that  bitter  drop, 

There  swims  enough  good  liquor,  Heaven  knows, 

To  ease  our  hearts  of  all  their  other  woes. 

The  bubbles  rise  in  sunshine  at  the  brim; 

That  drop  below  is  very  far  and  dim; 

The  quick  fumes  spread,  and  shape  us  such  bright 

dreams 

That  in  the  glad  delirium  it  seems 
As  though  by  some  deft  sleight,  if  so  we  willed, 
That  drop  untasted  might  be  somehow  spilled. 

William  Dean  Howetts. 

WHAT  SHALL  IT  PROFIT? 

IF  I  lay  waste  and  wither  up  with  doubt 

The  blessed  fields  of  heaven  where  once  my  faith 

Possessed  itself  serenely  safe  from  death; 

If  I  deny  the  things  past  finding  out; 


172       JAMES   RYDER   RANDALL 

Or  if  I  orphan  my  own  soul  of  One 
That  seemed  a  Father,  and  make  void  the  place 
Within  me  where  He  dwelt  in  power  and  grace, 
What  do  I  gain  by  that  I  have  undone? 

William  Dean  Howells. 

THE  STIRRUP-CUP 

MY  short  and  happy  day  is  done, 
The  long  and  dreary  night  comes  on, 
And  at  my  door  the  pale  horse  stands 
To  carry  me  to  unknown  lands. 

His  whinny  shrill,  his  pawing  hoof, 
Sound  dreadful  as  a  gathering  storm; 
And  I  must  leave  this  sheltering  roof 
And  joys  of  life  so  soft  and  warm. 

Tender  and  warm  the  joys  of  life,  — 
Good  friends,  the  faithful  and  the  true; 
My  rosy  children  and  my  wife, 
So  sweet  to  kiss,  so  fair  to  view,  — 

So  sweet  to  kiss,  so  fair  to  view: 
The  night  comes  down,  the  lights  burn  blue; 
And  at  my  door  the  pale  horse  stands 
To  bear  me  forth  to  unknown  lands. 

John  Hay, 

MY  MARYLAND 

THE  despot's  heel  is  on  thy  shore, 

Maryland ! 
His  torch  is  at  thy  temple  door, 

Maryland ! 


MY  MARYLAND  173 


Avenge  the  patriotic  gore 
That  flecked  the  streets  of  Baltimore, 
And  be  the  battle-queen  of  yore, 
Maryland,  my  Maryland! 

Hark  to  an  exiled  son's  appeal, 

Maryland ! 
My  Mother  State,  to  thee  I  kneel, 

Maryland ! 

For  life  and  death,  for  woe  and  weal, 
Thy  peerless  chivalry  reveal, 
And  gird  thy  beauteous  limbs  with  steel, 

Maryland,  my  Maryland! 

Thou  wilt  not  cower  in  the  dust, 

Maryland ! 
Thy  beaming  sword  shall  never  rust, 

Maryland ! 

Remember  Carroll's  sacred  trust, 
Remember  Howard's  warlike  thrust, 
And  all  thy  slumberers  with  the  just, 

Maryland,  my  Maryland ! 

Come !  't  is  the  red  dawn  of  the  day, 

Maryland ! 
Come  with  thy  panoplied  array, 

Maryland ! 

With  Ringgold's  spirit  for  the  fray, 
With  Watson's  blood  at  Monterey, 
With  fearless  Lowe  and  dashing  May, 

Maryland,  my  Maryland! 

Dear  Mother,  burst  the  tyrant's  chain, 
Maryland ! 


174          JAMES   RYDER   RANDALL 

Virginia  should  not  call  in  vain, 

Maryland ! 

She  meets  her  sisters  on  the  plain,  — 
"Sic  semper  I  "  't  is  the  proud  refrain 
That  baffles  minions  back  amain, 

Maryland ! 
Arise  in  majesty  again, 

Maryland,  my  Maryland! 

Come !  for  thy  shield  is  bright  and  strong, 

Maryland ! 
Come!  for  thy  dalliance  does  thee  wrong, 

Maryland ! 

Come  to  thine  own  heroic  throng 
Stalking  with  Liberty  along, 
And  chant  thy  dauntless  slogan-song, 

Maryland,  my  Maryland ! 

I  see  the  blush  upon  thy  cheek, 

Maryland ! 
For  thou  wast  ever  bravely  meek, 

Maryland ! 

But  lo!  there  surges  forth  a  shriek, 
From  hill  to  hill,  from  creek  to  creek, 
Potomac  calls  to  Chesapeake, 

Maryland,  my  Maryland! 

Thou  wilt  not  yield  the  Vandal  toll, 

Maryland ! 
Thou  wilt  not  crook  to  his  control, 

Maryland ! 

Better  the  fire  upon  thee  roll, 
Better  the  shot,  the  blade,  the  bowl, 


THE   PICKET-GUARD 


Than  crucifixion  of  the  soul, 
Maryland,  my  Maryland! 

I  hear  the  distant  thunder  hum, 

Maryland  ! 
The  Old  Line's  bugle,  fife,  and  drum, 

Maryland  ! 

She  is  not  dead,  nor  deaf,  nor  dumb; 
Huzza!  she  spurns  the  Northern  scum! 
She  breathes!  She  burns!  She'll  come! 
She'll  come! 

Maryland,  my  Maryland! 

James  Ryder  Randall, 

THE  PICKET-GUARD 

November,  1861 

14  ALL  quiet  along  the  Potomac,"  they  say, 

"Except  now  and  then  a  stray  picket 
Is  shot,  as  he  walks  on  his  beat  to  and  fro, 

By  a  rifleman  hid  in  the  thicket. 
'T  is  nothing  :  a  private  or  two,  now  and  then, 

Will  not  count  in  the  news  of  the  battle; 
Not  an  officer  lost  —  only  one  of  the  men, 

Moaning  out,  all  alone,  the  death-rattle." 

All  quiet  along  the  Potomac  to-night, 

Where  the  soldiers  lie  peacefully  dreaming; 

Their  tents  in  the  rays  of  the  clear  autumn  moon, 
Or  the  light  of  the  watch-fire,  are  gleaming. 

A  tremulous  sigh  of  the  gentle  night-wind 
Through  the  forest  leaves  softly  is  creeping, 


176  ETHEL  LYNN   BEERS 

While  the  stars  up  above,  with  their  glittering  eyes, 
Keep  guard,  for  the  army  is  sleeping. 

There's  only  the  sound  of  the  lone  sentry's  tread, 

As  he  tramps  from  the  rock  to  the  fountain, 
And  thinks  of  the  two  in  the  low  trundle-bed 

Far  away  in  the  cot  on  the  mountain. 
His  musket  falls  slack;  his  face,  dark  and  grim, 

Grows  gentle  with  memories  tender, 
As  he  mutters  a  prayer  for  the  children  asleep  — 

For  their  mother  —  may  Heaven  defend  her! 

The  moon  seems  to  shine  just  as  brightly  as  then, 

That  night,  when  the  love  yet  unspoken 
Leaped  up  to  his  lips  —  when  low-murmured  vows 

Were  pledged  to  be  ever  unbroken. 
Then  drawing  his  sleeve  roughly  over  his  eyes, 

He  dashes  off  tears  that  are  welling, 
And  gathers  his  gun  closer  up  to  its  place 

As  if  to  keep  down  the  heart-swelling. 

He  passes  the  fountain,  the  blasted  pine-tree; 

The  footstep  is  lagging  and  weary; 
Yet  onward  he  goes,  through  the  broad  belt  of  light, 

Toward  the  shade  of  the  forest  so  dreary. 
Hark!  was  it  the  night-wind  that  rustled  the  leaves? 

Was  it  moonlight  so  wondrously  flashing? 
It  looked  like  a  rifle  .  .  .  ?  Ha!  Mary,  good-bye!" 

The  red  life-blood  is  ebbing  and  plashing. 
All  quiet  along  the  Potomac  to-night; 

No  sound  save  the  rush  of  the  river; 
While  soft  falls  the  dew  on  the  face  of  the  dead  — 

The  picket 's  off  duty  forever. 

Ethel  Lynn  Beers. 


DICKENS   IN   CAMP  177 

RELIEVING  GUARD 

CAME  the  relief.   "What,  sentry,  ho! 

How  passed  the  night  through  thy  long  waking?" 

"Cold,  cheerless,  dark,  —  as  may  befit 

The  hour  before  the  dawn  is  breaking." 

"No  sight?  no  sound?"   "No;  nothing  save 
The  plover  from  the  marshes  calling, 
And  in  yon  western  sky,  about 
An  hour  ago,  a  star  was  falling." 

"A  star?  there's  nothing  strange  in  that." 
"No,  nothing;  but,  above  the  thicket, 
Somehow  it  seemed  to  me  that  God 
Somewhere  had  just  relieved  a  picket." 

Bret  Harte. 

DICKENS  IN  CAMP 

ABOVE  the  pines  the  moon  was  slowly  drifting, 

The  river  sang  below; 
The  dim  Sierras,  far  beyond,  uplifting 

Their  minarets  of  snow. 

The  roaring  camp-fire,  with  rude  humor,  painted 

The  ruddy  tints  of  health 
On  haggard  face  and  form  that  drooped  and  fainted 

In  the  fierce  race  for  wealth; 

Till  one  arose,  and  from  his  pack's  scant  treasure 

A  hoarded  volume  drew, 
And  cards  were  dropped  from  hands  of  listless  leisures 

To  hear  the  tale  an^w. 


178  BRET   HARTE 

And  then,  while  round  them  shadows  gathered 
faster, 

And  as  the  firelight  fell, 
He  read  aloud  the  book  wherein  the  Master 

Had  writ  of  "Little  Nell." 

Perhaps  't  was  boyish  fancy,  —  for  the  reader 

Was  youngest  of  them  all,  — 
But,  as  he  read,  from  clustering  pine  and  cedar 

A  silence  seemed  to  fall; 

The  fir-trees,  gathering  closer  in  the  shadows, 

Listened  in  every  spray, 

While  the  whole  camp,  with  "Nell,"  on  English 
meadows, 

Wandered  and  lost  their  way. 

And  so  in  mountain  solitudes  —  overtaken 

As  by  some  spell  divine  — 
Their  cares  dropped  from  them  like  the  needles 
shaken 

From  out  the  gusty  pine. 

Lost  is  that  camp,  and  wasted  all  its  fire: 
And  he  who  wrought  that  spell?  — 

Ah,  towering  pine  and  stately  Kentish  spire, 
Ye  have  one  tale  to  tell! 

Lost  is  that  camp,  but  let  its  fragrant  story 
Blend  with  the  breath  that  thrills 

With  hop-vine's  incense  all  the  pensive  glory 
That  fills  the  Kentish  hills. 


TO  A   SEA-BIRD  179 

And  on  that  grave  where  English  oak  and  holly 

And  laurel  wreaths  entwine, 
Deem  it  not  all  a  too  presumptuous  folly  — 

This  spray  of  Western  pine! 

Bret  Harte. 


TO  A  SEA-BIRD 

SAUNTERING  hither  on  listless  wings, 

Careless  vagabond  of  the  sea, 
Little  thou  heedest  the  surf  that  sings, 
The  bar  that  thunders,  the  shale  that  rings,  — - 

Give  me  to  keep  thy  company. 

Little  thou  hast,  old  friend,  that's  new; 

Storms  and  wrecks  are  old  things  to  thee; 
Sick  am  I  of  these  changes,  too; 
Little  to  care  for,  little  to  rue,  — 

I  on  the  shore,  and  thou  on  the  sea. 

All  of  thy  wanderings,  far  and  near, 

Bring  thee  at  last  to  shore  and  me; 

All  of  my  journeyings  end  them  here: 

This  our  tether  must  be  our  cheer,  — 

I  on  the  shore,  and  thou  on  the  sea. 

Lazily  rocking  on  ocean's  breast, 

Something  in  common,  old  friend,  have  we: 
Thou  on  the  shingle  seek'st  thy  nest, 
I  to  the  waters  look  for  rest,  — 

I  on  the  shore,  and  thou  on  the  sea. 

Bret  Harte. 


180         JOHN   WHITE   CHADWICK 

TAKE  HEART 

ALL  day  the  stormy  wind  has  blown 

From  off  the  dark  and  rainy  sea; 
No  bird  has  past  the  window  flown, 
The  only  song  has  been  the  moan 
The  wind  made  in  the  willow-tree. 

This  is  the  summer's  burial-time: 

She  died  when  dropped  the  earliest  leaves; 
And,  cold  upon  her  rosy  prime, 
Fell  direful  autumn's  frosty  rime; 
Yet  I  am  not  as  one  that  grieves,  — 

For  well  I  know  o'er  sunny  seas 

The  bluebird  waits  for  April  skies; 
And  at  the  roots  of  forest  trees 
The  May-flowers  sleep  in  fragrant  ease, 
The  violets  hide  their  azure  eyes. 

O  thou,  by  winds  of  grief  o'erblown, 

Beside  some  golden  summer's  bier,  — 
Take  heart!  Thy  birds  are  only  flown, 
Thy  blossoms  sleeping,  tearful  sown, 
To  greet  thee  in  the  immortal  year! 

Edna  Dean  Proctor. 

THE  MAKING  OF  MAN 

As  the  insect  from  the  rock 
Takes  the  color  of  its  wing; 

As  the  boulder  from  the  shock 
Of  the  ocean's  rhythmic  swing 


SEA-BLOWN  181 


Makes  itself  a  perfect  form, 

Learns  a  calmer  front  to  raise; 
As  the  shell,  enamelled  warm 

With  the  prism's  mystic  rays, 
Praises  wind  and  wave  that  make 

All  its  chambers  fair  and  strong; 
As  the  mighty  poets  take 

Grief  and  pain  to  build  their  song: 
Even  so  for  every  soul, 

Whatsoe'er  its  lot  may  be,  — 
Building,  as  the  heavens  roll, 

Something  large  and  strong  and  free,  — 
Things  that  hurt  and  things  that  mar 

Shape  the  man  for  perfect  praise; 
Shock  and  strain  and  ruin  are 

Friendlier  than  the  smiling  days. 

John  White  Ckadurick. 

BYRON 

IN  men  whom  men  condemn  as  ill 
I  find  so  much  of  goodness  still, 
In  men  whom  men  pronounce  divine 
I  find  so  much  of  sin  and  blot, 
I  do  not  dare  to  draw  a  line 
Between  the  two,  where  God  has  not. 

Joaquin  Miller. 

SEA-BLOWN 

Ah!  there  be  souls  none  understand; 
Like  clouds,  they  cannot  touch  the  land. 
Unanchored  ships,  they  blow  and  blow, 
Sail  to  and  fro,  and  then  go  down 


182  JOAQUIN   MILLER 

In  unknown  seas  that  none  shall  knowp 
Without  one  ripple  of  renown. 

Call  these  not  fools,  the  test  of  worth 
Is  not  the  hold  you  have  of  earth. 
Ay,  there  be  gentlest  souls  sea-blown 
That  know  not  any  harbor  known. 
Now  it  may  be  the  reason  is, 
They  touch  on  fairer  shores  than  this. 

Joaquin  Miller, 

COLUMBUS 

BEHIND  him  lay  the  gray  Azores, 

Behind  the  Gates  of  Hercules; 
Before  him  not  the  ghost  of  shores, 

Before  him  only  shoreless  seas. 
The  good  mate  said:  "Now  must  we  pray, 

For  lo !  the  very  stars  are  gone. 
Brave  Admiral,  speak,  what  shall  I  say?" 

"Why,  say  'Sail  on!  sail  on!  and  on!'" 

"My  men  grow  mutinous  day  by  day; 

My  men  grow  ghastly  wan  and  weak." 
The  stout  mate  thought  of  home;  a  spray 

Of  salt  wave  washed  his  swarthy  cheek. 
"What  shall  I  say,  brave  Admiral,  say, 

If  we  sight  naught  but  seas  at  dawn?" 
"Why,  you  shall  say  at  break  of  day, 

'Sail  onl  sail  on!  sail  on!  and  on!'" 

They  sailed  and  sailed,  as  winds  might  blow, 
Until  at  last  the  blanched  mate  said, 


THE   YUKON  18«? 


"Why,  now  not  even  God  would  know 

Should  I  and  all  my  men  fall  dead. 
These  very  winds  forget  their  way, 

For  God  from  these  dread  seas  is  gone. 
Now  speak,  brave  Admiral,  speak  and  say"  — 

He  said:  "Sail  on!  sail  on!  and  on!" 

They  sailed.  They  sailed.  Then  spake  the  mate: 

"This  mad  sea  shows  his  teeth  to-night. 
He  curls  his  lip,  he  lies  in  wait, 

With  lifted  teeth,  as  if  to  bite! 
Brave  Admiral,  say  but  one  good  word: 

What  shall  we  do  when  hope  is  gone?" 
The  words  leapt  like  a  leaping  sword: 

"Sail  on!  sail  on!  sail  on!  and  on!" 

Then,  pale  and  worn,  he  kept  his  deck, 

And  peered  through  darkness.  Ah,  that  night 
Of  all  dark  nights !  And  then  a  speck  — 

A  light!  a  light!  a  light!  a  light! 
It  grew,  a  starlit  flag  unfurled ! 

It  grew  to  be  Time's  burst  of  dawn. 
He  gained  a  world;  he  gave  that  world 

Its  grandest  lesson:  "On!  sail  on!" 

Joaquin  MMer. 

THE  YUKON 

THE  moon  resumed  all  heaven  now, 
She  shepherded  the  stars  below 
Along  her  wide,  white  steeps  of  snow, 
Nor  stooped  nor  rested,  where  or  how. 


184  JOAQUIN   MILLER 

She  bared  her  full  white  breast,  she  dared 

The  sun  e'er  show  his  face  again. 

She  seemed  to  know  no  change,  she  kept 

Carousal  constantly,  nor  slept, 

Nor  turned  aside  a  breath,  nor  spared 

The  fearful  meaning,  the  mad  pain, 

The  weary  eyes,  the  poor  dazed  brain, 

That  came  at  last  to  feel,  to  see 

The  dread,  dead  touch  of  lunacy. 

How  loud  the  silence!  Oh,  how  loud! 
How  more  than  beautiful  the  shroud 
Of  dead  Light  in  the  moon-mad  north 
When  great  torch-tipping  stars  stand  forth 
Above  the  black,  slow-moving  pall 
As  at  some  fearful  funeral ! 

The  moon  blares  as  mad  trumpets  blare 
To  marshaled  warriors  long  and  loud ; 
The  cobalt  blue  knows  not  a  cloud, 
But  oh,  beware  that  moon,  beware 
Her  ghostly,  graveyard,  moon-mad  stare! 

Beware  white  silence  more  than  white! 
Beware  the  five-horned  starry  run*; 
Beware  the  groaning  gorge  below; 
Beware  the  wide,  white  world  of  snow, 
Where  trees  hang  white  as  hooded  nun  — 
No  thing  not  white,  not  one,  not  one! 
But  most  beware  that  mad  white  moon. 

All  day,  all  day,  all  night,  all  night 
Nay>  nay,  not  yet  or  night  or  day. 


THE   YUKON  185 


Just  whiteness,  whiteness,  ghastly  white, 
Made  doubly  white  by  that  mad  moon 
And  strange  stars  jangled  out  of  tune! 

At  last,  he  saw,  or  seemed  to  see, 
Above,  beyond,  another  world. 
Far  up  the  ice-hung  path  there  curled 
A  red-veined  cloud,  a  canopy 
That  topt  the  fearful  ice-built  peak 
That  seemed  to  prop  the  very  porch 
Of  God's  house;  then,  as  if  a  torch 
Burned  fierce,  there  flushed  a  fiery  streak, 
A  flush,  a  blush,  on  heaven's  cheek ! 

The  dogs  sat  down,  men  sat  the  sled 

And  watched  the  flush,  the  blush  of  red. 

The  little  wooly  dogs,  they  knew, 

Yet  scarce  knew  what  they  were  about. 

They  thrust  their  noses  up  and  out, 

They  drank  the  Light,  what  else  to  do? 

Their  little  feet,  so  worn,  so  true, 

Could  scarce  keep  quiet  for  delight. 

They  knew,  they  knew,  how  much  they  knev\ 

The  mighty  breaking  up  of  night! 

Their  bright  eyes  sparkled  with  such  joy 

That  they  at  last  should  see  loved  Light! 

The  tandem  sudden  broke  all  rule; 

Swung  back,  each  leaping  like  a  boy 

Let  loose  from  some  dark,  ugly  school  — 

Leaped  up  and  tried  to  lick  his  hand  — 

Stood  up  as  happy  children  stand. 

How  tenderly  God's  finger  set 
His  crimson  flower  on  that  height 


186         EDWARD   ROWLAND   SILL 

Above  the  battered  walls  of  night! 
A  little  space  it  flourished  yet, 
And  then  His  angel,  His  first-born, 
Burst  through,  as  on  that  primal  morn! 

Joaquin  Miller. 

OPPORTUNITY 

THIS  I  beheld,  or  dreamed  it  in  a  dream:  — 

There  spread  a  cloud  of  dust  along  a  plain; 

And  underneath  the  cloud,  or  in  it,  raged 

A  furious  battle,  and  men  yelled,  and  swords 

Shocked  upon  swords  and  shields.    A  prince's  bannei 

Wavered,  then  staggered  backward,  hemmed  by  foes. 

A  craven  hung  along  the  battle's  edge, 

And  thought,  "Had  I  a  sword  of  keener  steel  — 

That  blue  blade  that  the  king's  son  bears,  —  but  this 

Blunt  thing  — ! "  he  snapped  and  flung  it  from  his  hand, 

And  lowering  crept  away  and  left  the  field. 

Then  came  the  king's  son,  wounded,  sore  bestead, 

And  weaponless,  and  saw  the  broken  sword, 

Hilt-buried  in  the  dry  and  trodden  sand, 

And  ran  and  snatched  it,  and  with  battle  shout 

Lifted  afresh  he  hewed  his  enemy  down, 

And  saved  a  great  cause  that  heroic  day. 

Edward  Rowland  Sill* 

THE  FOOL'S  PRAYER 

THE  royal  feast  was  done;  the  King 
Sought  some  new  sport  to  banish  care, 

And  to  his  jester  cried:  "Sir  Fool, 

Kneel  now,  and  make  for  us  a  prayer!" 


THE   FOOL'S   PRAYER  187 

The  jester  doffed  his  cap  and  bells, 
And  stood  the  mocking  court  before; 

They  could  not  see  the  bitter  smile 
Behind  the  painted  grin  he  wore. 

He  bowed  his  head,  and  bent  his  knee 

Upon  the  Monarch's  silken  stool; 
His  pleading  voice  arose:  "O  Lord, 

Be  merciful  to  me,  a  fool ! 

"No  pity,  Lord,  could  change  the  heart 

From  red  with  wrong  to  white  as  wool; 
The  rod  must  heal  the  sin :  but  Lord, 
Be  merciful  to  me,  a  fool! 

"  'T  is  not  by  guilt  the  onward  sweep 

Of  truth  and  right,  O  Lord,  we  stay; 
'T  is  by  our  follies  that  so  long 

We  hold  the  earth  from  heaven  away. 

"These  clumsy  feet,  still  in  the  mire, 

Go  crushing  blossoms  without  end; 
These  hard,  well-meaning  hands  we  thrust 
Among  the  heart-strings  of  a  friend. 

"The  ill-timed  truth  we  might  have  kept  — 

Who  knows  how  sharp  it  pierced  and  stung? 
The  word  we  had  not  sense  to  say  — 
Who  knows  how  grandly  it  had  rung! 

"Our  faults  no  tenderness  should  ask. 

The  chastening  stripes  must  cleanse  them  all; 
But  for  our  blunders  —  oh,  in  shame 
Before  the  eyes  of  heaven  we  fall. 


188    CHARLES  WARREN   STODDARD 

"Earth  bears  no  balsam  for  mistakes; 

Men  crown  the  knave,  and  scourge  the  tool 
That  did  his  will;  but  Thou,  O  Lord, 
Be  merciful  to  me,  a  fool!" 

The  room  was  hushed;  in  silence  rose 
The  King,  and  sought  his  gardens  cool, 

And  walked  apart,  and  murmured  low, 
"Be  merciful  to  me,  a  fool!" 

Edward  Rowland  Sill. 

LIFE 

FORENOON  and  afternoon  and  night,  —  Forenoon, 
And  afternoon,  and  night,  —  Forenoon,  and  —  what  I 
The  empty  song  repeats  itself.  No  more? 
Yea,  that  is  Life :  make  this  forenoon  sublime, 
This  afternoon  a  psalm,  this  night  a  prayer, 
And  Time  is  conquered,  and  thy  crown  is  won. 

Edward  Rowland  Sill. 

A  RHYME  OF  LIFE 

IF  life  be  as  a  flame  that  death  doth  kill, 
Burn,  little  candle,  lit  for  me, 
With  a  pure  flame,  that  I  may  rightly  see 
To  word  my  song,  and  utterly 
God's  plan  fulfil. 

If  life  be  as  a  flower  that  blooms  and  dies, 
Forbid  the  cunning  frost  that  slays 
With  Judas  kiss,  and  trusting  love  betrays; 
Forever  may  my  song  of  praise 
Untainted  rise. 


THE    POWER   OF  BEAUTY          7.89 

If  life  be  as  a  voyage,  foul  or  fair, 
Oh,  bid  me  not  my  banners  furl 
For  adverse  gale,  or  wave  in  angry  whirl, 
Till  I  have  found  the  gates  of  pearl, 
And  anchored  there. 

Charles  Warren  Stoddard. 


THE  POWER  OF  BEAUTY 

THOU  needst  not  weave  nor  spin, 
Nor  bring  the  wheat-sheaves  in, 
Nor,  forth  a-field  at  morn, 
At  eve  bring  home  the  corn, 
Nor  on  a  winter's  night 
Make  blaze  the  fagots  bright. 

So  lithe  and  delicate  — 
So  slender  is  thy  state, 
So  pale  and  pure  thy  face, 
So  deer-like  in  their  grace 
Thy  limbs,  that  all  do  vie 
To  take  and  charm  the  eye. 

Thus,  toiling  where  thou  'rt  not 
Is  but  the  common  lot:  — 
Three  men  mayhap  alone 
By  strength  may  move  a  stone* 
But,  toiling  near  to  thee, 
One  man  may  work  as  three. 

If  thou  but  bend  a  smile 
To  fall  on  him  the  while, 


MARY   THACHER   HIGGINSON 

Or  if  one  tender  glance,  — 
Though  coy  and  shot  askance,  — 
His  eye  discover,  then 
One  man  may  work  as  ten. 

Men  commonly  but  ask, 
"When  shall  I  end  my  task?" 
But  seeing  thee  come  in, 
'T  is,  "When  may  I  begin?" 
Such  power  doth  beauty  bring 
To  take  from  toil  its  sting. 

If  then  thou'lt  do  but  this  — 
Fling  o'er  the  work  a  bliss 
From  thy  mere  presence  —  none 
Shall  think  thou'st  nothing  done; 
Thou  needst  not  weave  nor  spin, 
Nor  bring  the  wheat-sheaves  in. 

James  Herbert  Morse. 


INHERITANCE 

WE  wondered  why  he  always  turned  aside 
When  mirth  and  gladness  filled  the  brimmin 
Who  else  so  fit  as  he  for  pleasure's  ways? 
Men  thought  him  frozen  by  a  selfish  pride; 
But  that  his  voice  was  music  none  denied, 
Or  that  his  smile  was  like  the  sun's  warm  rays. 
One  day  upon  the  sands  he  spoke  in  praise 
Of  swimmers  who  were  buffeting  the  tide: 
"The  swelling  waves  of  life  they  dare  to  meet. 
I  may  not  plunge  where  others  safely  go,  — 


TREES   AND  THE   MASTER        191 

Unbidden  longings  in  my  pulses  beat." 
O  blind  and  thoughtless  world !  you  little  know 
That  ever  round  this  hero's  steadfast  feet 
Surges  and  tugs  the  dreaded  undertow. 

Mary  Thacher  Higginson. 


EVENING  SONG 

LOOK  off,  dear  Love,  across  the  sallow  sands, 
And  mark  yon  meeting  of  the  sun  and  sea, 

How  long  they  kiss  in  sight  of  all  the  lands, 
Ah!  longer,  longer,  we. 

Now  in  the  sea's  red  vintage  melts  the  sun, 
As  Egypt's  pearl  dissolved  in  rosy  wine, 

And  Cleopatra  night  drinks  all.  'T  is  done, 
Love,  Jay  thine  hand  in  mine. 

Come  forth,  sweet  stars,  and  comfort  heaven's  heart; 

Glimmer,  ye  waves,  round  else  unlighted  sands. 
O  night!  divorce  our  sun  and  sky  apart. 

Never  our  lips,  our  hands. 

Sidney  Lanier. 


A  BALLAD  OF  TREES  AND  THE 
MASTER 

INTO  the  woods  my  Master  went, 
Clean  forspent,  forspent. 
Into  the  woods  my  Master  came, 
Forspent  with  love  and  shame. 


192  SIDNEY   LANIER 

But  the  olives  they  were  not  blind  to  Him; 
The  little  gray  leaves  were  kind  to  Him; 
The  thorn-tree  had  a  mind  to  Him 
When  into  the  woods  He  came. 

Out  of  the  woods  my  Master  went, 

And  He  was  well  content. 

Out  of  the  woods  my  Master  came, 

Content  with  death  and  shame. 

When  Death  and  Shame  would  woo  Him  last, 

From  under  the  trees  they  drew  Him  last: 

'T  was  on  a  tree  they  slew  Him  —  last, 

When  out  of  the  woods  He  came. 

Sidney  Lanier. 

THE  STIRRUP-CUP 

DEATH,  thou'rt  a  cordial  old  and  rare: 
Look  how  compounded,  with  what  care, 
Time  got  his  wrinkles  reaping  thee 
Sweet  herbs  from  all  antiquity. 

David  to  thy  distillage  went, 
Keats,  and  Gotama  excellent, 
Omar  Khayyam,  and  Chaucer  bright, 
And  Shakespeare  for  a  king-delight. 

Then,  Time,  let  not  a  drop  be  spilt: 
Hand  me  the  cup  whene'er  thou  wilt; 
'T  is  thy  rich  stirrup-cup  to  me; 
I  '11  drink  it  down  right  smilingly. 

Sidney  Lanier. 


WAITING  193 


WAITING 

SERENE,  I  fold  my  hands  and  wait, 
Nor  care  for  wind,  nor  tide,  nor  sea; 

I  rave  no  more  'gainst  time  or  fate, 
For,  lo !  my  own  shall  come  to  me. 

I  stay  my  haste,  I  make  delays, 

For  what  avails  this  eager  pace? 
I  stand  amid  the  eternal  ways, 

And  what  is  mine  shall  know  my  face. 

Asleep,  awake,  by  night  or  day, 
The  friends  I  seek  are  seeking  me; 

No  wind  can  drive  my  bark  astray, 
Nor  change  the  tide  of  destiny. 

What  matter  if  I  stand  alone? 

I  wait  with  joy  the  coming  years; 
My  heart  shall  reap  where  it  hath  sown, 

And  garner  up  its  fruit  of  tears. 

The  waters  know  their  own  and  draw 
The  brook  that  springs  in  yonder  height; 

So  flows  the  good  with  equal  law 
Unto  the  soul  of  pure  delight. 

The  stars  come  nightly  to  the  sky; 

The  tidal  wave  unto  the  sea; 
Nor  time,  nor  space,  nor  deep,  nor  high, 

Can  keep  mj  own  away  from  me. 

John  Burroughs 


194.  JOHN   BOYLE   O'REILLY 

WHAT  IS  GOOD 

"What  is  the  real  good?" 
I  asked  in  musing  mood. 

Order,  said  the  law  court; 
Knowledge,  said  the  school; 
Truth,  said  the  wise  man; 
Pleasure,  said  the  fool; 
Love,  said  a  maiden; 
Beauty,  said  the  page; 
Freedom,  said  the  dreamer; 
Home,  said  the  sage; 
Fame,  said  the  soldier; 
Equity,  the  seer;  — 

Spake  my  heart  full  sadly, 
"The  answer  is  not  here." 

Then  within  my  bosom 
Softly  this  I  heard: 
"Each  heart  holds  the  secret; 
Kindness  is  the  word." 

John  Boyle  O'Reilly 

AT  BEST 

THE  faithful  helm  commands  the  keel, 
From  port  to  port  fair  breezes  blow; 

But  the  ship  must  sail  the  convex  sea, 
Nor  may  she  straighter  go. 

So,  man  to  man;  in  fair  accord, 

On  thought  and  will  the  winds  may  wait; 


THE   WOODS   AND   SUNSET        195 

But  the  world  will  bend  the  passing  word, 
Though  its  shortest  course  be  straight. 

From  soul  to  soul  the  shortest  line 

At  best  will  bended  be: 
The  ship  that  holds  the  straightest  course 

Still  sails  the  convex  sea. 

John  Boyle  0'Reitty< 

A  WHITE  ROSE 

THE  red  rose  whispers  of  passion, 
And  the  white  rose  breathes  of  love; 

Oh,  the  red  rose  is  a  falcon, 
And  the  white  rose  is  a  dove. 

But  I  send  you  a  cream-white  rose  bud 

With  a  flush  on  its  petal  tips; 
For  the  love  that  is  purest  and  sweetest 

Has  a  kiss  of  desire  on  the  lips. 

John  Boyle  O'Reitty. 

THE  WOODS  THAT  BRING  THE 
SUNSET  NEAR 

THE  wind  from  out  the  west  is  blowing; 
The  homeward-wandering  cows  are  lowing; 
Dark  grow  the  pine-woods,  dark  and  drear  -« 
The  woods  that  bring  the  sunset  near. 

When  o'er  wide  seas  the  sun  declines, 
Far  off  its  fading  glory  shines,  — 
Far  off,  sublime,  and  full  of  fear,  — 
The  pine-woods  bring  the  sunset  near. 


19G       RICHARD   WATSON   GILDER 

This  house  that  looks  to  east,  to  west, 
This,  dear  one,  is  our  home,  our  rest; 
Yonder  the  stormy  sea,  and  here 
The  woods  that  bring  the  sunset  near. 

Richard  Watson  Gilder. 

SONGS 

[i] 

NOT  from  the  whole  wide  world  I  chose  thee  — 
Sweetheart,  light  of  the  land  and  the  sea! 
The  wide,  wide  world  could  not  inclose  thee, 
For  thou  art  the  whole  wide  world  to  me. 

[n  ] 

Years  have  flown  since  I  knew  thee  first, 
And  I  know  thee  as  water  is  known  of  thirst; 
Yet  I  knew  thee  of  old  at  the  first  sweet  sight, 
And  thou  art  strange  to  me,  Love,  to-night. 

Richard  Watson  Gilder. 

I  COUNT  MY  TIME  BY  TIMES 
THAT  I  MEET  THEE 

I  COUNT  my  time  by  times  that  I  meet  thee; 

These  are  my  yesterdays,  my  morrows,  noons, 

And  nights;  these  my  old  moons  and  my  new  moons, 

Slow  fly  the  hours,  or  fast  the  hours  do  flee, 

If  thou  art  far  from  or  art  near  to  me; 

If  thou  art  far,  the  bird  tunes  are  no  tunes; 

If  thou  art  near,  the  wintry  days  are  Junes  — 

Darkness  is  light,  and  sorrow  cannot  be. 

Thou  art  my  dream  come  true,  and  thou  my  dream; 


IN   EXILE  1Q7 


The  air  I  breathe,  the  world  wherein  I  dwell; 
My  journey's  end  thou  art,  and  thou  the  way; 
Thou  art  what  I  would  be,  yet  only  seem; 
Thou  art  my  heaven  and  thou  art  my  hell ; 
Thou  art  my  ever-living  judgment-day. 

Richard  Watson  Gilder. 

AFTER-SONG 

THROUGH  love  to  light!  O,  wonderful  the  way 
That  leads  from  darkness  to  the  perfect  day! 
From  darkness  and  from  sorrow  of  the  night 
To  morning  that  comes  singing  o'er  the  sea. 
Through  love  to  light !  Through  light,  O  God,  to  Thee, 
Who  art  the  love  of  love,  the  eternal  light  of  light! 

Richard  Watson  Gilder. 

IN  EXILE 

THE  green  is  on  the  grass  and  the  blue  is  in  the  sky, 
And  the  soft,  wet  winds  of  April  hurry  by; 
The  earth  laughs  loud  to  the  waves  upon  the  shore, 
But  I  'm  sad  for  the  land  I  shall  never  see  more. 

And  often  in  the  night  time  and  often  in  the  day 
I  know  by  the  tears  that  my  heart  is  far  away; 
I  know  by  the  tears  that  my  heart  is  longing  sore 
For  the  fair  lost  land  I  shall  never  see  more. 

Peace  is  here  and  plenty,  —  O  the  glad  relief!  — 
With  laughing  of  the  children  between  my  soul  and 

grief; 

Sorrow  is  behind  us  and  happy  days  before,  — 
But  God  be  with  the  land  I  shall  never  see  more! 


198        MARY   ELIZABETH  BLAKE 

And  deep  shame  upon  me  that  any  one  should  hear! 
The  black  cloud  is  gone  of  the  hunger  and  the  fear, 
The  black  care  that  sat  like  a  wolf  beside  the  door 
In  the  far,  far  land  I  shall  never  see  more. 

Ever  Blessed  Savior!  be  not  wroth  with  me! 
For  all  Thy  gifts  and  mercies,  praise  and  glory  be; 
But  the  shadow 's  in  my  eyes  for  the  little  one  I  bore, 
Who 's  asleep  in  the  land  I  shall  never  see  more. 

Mary  Elizabeth  Blake. 

THE  DAWNING  O'  THE  YEAR 

ALL  ye  who  love  the  springtime  —  and  who  but  loves 

it  well 
When  the  little  birds  do  sing,  and  the  buds  begin  to 

swell!  — 

Think  not  ye  ken  its  beauty,  or  know  its  face  so  dear, 
Till  ye  look  upon  old  Ireland,  in  the  dawning  o'  the 

year! 

For  where  in  all  the  earth  is  there  any  joy  like  this, 
When  the  skylark  sings  and  soars  like  a  spirit  into 

bliss, 
While  the  thrushes  in  the  bush  strain  their  small 

brown  mottled  throats, 
Making  all  the  air  rejoice  with  their  clear  and  mellow 

notes; 

And  the  blackbird  on  the  hedge  in  the  golden  sunset 

glow 
Trills  with  saucy,  side-tipped  head  to  the  bonny  nest 

below; 


THE   DAWNING   O'   THE   YEAR    199 

And  the  dancing  wind  slips  down  through  the  leaves 

of  the  boreen, 
And  all  the  world  rejoices  in  the  wearing  o'  the  green ! 

For  'tis  green,  green,  green,  where  the  ruined  towers 

are  gray, 
And  it's  green,  green,  green,  all  the  happy  night  and 

day; 

Green  of  leaf  and  green  of  sod,  green  of  ivy  on  the  wall, 
And  the  blessed  Irish  shamrock  with  the  fairest  green 

of  all. 

There  the  primrose  breath  is  sweet,  and  the  yellow 

gorse  is  set 
A  crown  of  shining  gold  on  the  headlands  brown  and 

wet; 
Not  a  nook  of  all  the  land  but  the  daisies  make  to 

glow, 
And  the  happy  violets  pray  in  their  hidden  cells  below. 

And  it's  there  the  earth  is  merry,  like  a  young  thing 

newly  made 
Running  wild  amid  the  blossoms  in  the  field  and  in  the 

glade, 
Babbling  ever  into  music  under  skies  with  soft  clouds 

piled, 
Like  the  laughter  and  the  tears  in  the  blue  eyes  of  a 

child. 

But  the  green,  green,  green,  O  'tis  that  is  blithe  and 

fair! 
In  the  fells  and  on  the  hills,  gay  and  gladsome  as  the 

air, 


200  MAURICE  THOMPSON 

Lying  warm  above  the  bog,  floating  brave  on  crag 

and  glen, 
Thrusting  forty  banners  high  where  another  land  has 

ten. 

Sure  Mother  Nature  knows  of  her  sore  and  heavy 

grief, 

And  thus  with  soft  caress  would  give  solace  and  relief; 
Would  fold  her  close  in  loveliness  to  keep  her  from 

the  cold, 
And  clasp  the  mantle  o'er  her  heart  with  emeralds 

and  gold. 

So  ye  who  love  the  springtime,  —  and  who  but  loves 

it  well 
When  the  little  birds  do  sing,  and  the  buds  begin  to 

swell!  — 

Think  not  ye  ken  its  beauty  or  know  its  face  so  dear 
Till  ye  meet  it  in  old  Ireland  in  the  dawning  o'  the 

year! 

Mary  Elizabeth  Blake. 

A  PRELUDE 

SPIRIT  that  moves  the  sap  in  spring, 
When  lusty  male  birds  fight  and  sing, 
Inform  my  words,  and  make  my  lines 
As  sweet  as  flowers,  as  strong  as  vines. 

Let  mine  be  the  freshening  power 
Of  rain  on  grass,  of  dew  on  flower; 
The  fertilizing  song  be  mine, 
Nut-flavored,  racy,  keen  as  wine. 


TO   AN   ORIOLE  301 

Let  some  procreant  truth  exhale 
From  me,  before  my  forces  fail; 
Or,  ere  the  ecstatic  impulse  go, 
Let  all  my  buds  to  blossoms  blow. 

If  quick,  sound  seed  be  wanting  where 
The  virgin  soil  feels  sun  and  air, 
And  longs  to  fill  a  higher  state, 
There  let  my  meanings  germinate. 

Let  not  my  strength  be  spilled  for  naught, 

But,  in  some  fresher  vessel  caught, 

Be  blended  into  sweeter  forms, 

And  fraught  with  purer  aims  and  charms. 

Let  bloom-dust  of  my  life  be  blown 
To  quicken  hearts  that  flower  alone; 
Around  my  knees  let  scions  rise 
With  heavenward-pointing  destinies. 

And  when  I  fall,  like  some  old  tree, 
And  subtile  change  makes  mould  of  me, 
There  let  earth  show  a  fertile  line 
Whence  perfect  wild-flowers  leap  and  shine! 
Maurice  Thompson 

TO  AN  ORIOLE 

How  falls  it,  oriole,  thou  hast  come  to  fly 
In  tropic  splendor  through  our  Northern  sky? 

At  some  glad  moment  was  it  nature's  choice 
To  dower  a  scrap  of  sunset  with  a  voice? 


202  EDGAR   FAWCETT 

Or  did  some  orange  tulip,  flaked  with  black, 
In  some  forgotten  garden,  ages  back, 

Yearning  toward  Heaven  until  its  wish  was  heard, 
Desire  unspeakably  to  be  a  bird? 

Edgar  Fawcett. 

FIREFLIES 

I  SAW,  one  sultry  night  above  a  swamp, 

The  darkness  throbbing  with  their  golden  pomp ! 

And  long  my  dazzled  sight  did  they  entrance 
With  the  weird  chaos  of  their  dizzy  dance! 

Quicker  than  yellow  leaves,  when  gales  despoil, 
Quivered  the  brilliance  of  their  mute  turmoil, 

Within  whose  light  was  intricately  blent 
Perpetual  rise,  perpetual  descent. 

As  though  their  scintillant  flickerings  had  met 
In  the  vague  meshes  of  some  airy  net! 

And  now  mysteriously  I  seemed  to  guess, 
While  watching  their  tumultuous  loveliness, 

What  fervor  of  deep  passion  strangely  thrives 
In  the  warm  richness  of  these  tropic  lives, 

Whose  wings  can  never  tremble  but  they  shbw 
These  hearts  of  living  fire  that  beat  below! 

Edgar  Fawcett, 


ITER   SUPREMUM 


EVOLUTION 

OUT  of  the  dusk  a  shadow, 

Then,  a  spark; 
Out  of  the  cloud  a  silence, 

Then,  a  lark; 
Out  of  the  heart  a  rapture, 

Then,  a  pain  ; 
Out  of  the  dead,  cold  ashes, 

Life  again.  John  B. 

TO  SHELLEY 

AT  Shelley's  birth, 
The  Lark,  dawn-spirit,  with  an  anthem  loud 

Rose  from  the  dusky  earth 

To  tell  it  to  the  Cloud, 
That,  like  a  flower  night-folded  in  the  gloom, 

Burst  into  morning  bloom. 

At  Shelley's  death, 
The  Sea,  that  deemed  him  an  immortal,  saw 

A  god's  extinguished  breath, 

And  landward,  as  in  awe, 
Upbore  him  to  the  altar  whence  he  came, 

And  the  rekindling  flame.     jokn  B 


ITER  SUPREMUM 

OH,  what  a  night  for  a  soul  to  go! 
The  wind  a  hawk,  and  the  fields  in  snow; 
No  screening  cover  of  leaves  in  the  wood, 
Nor  a  star  abroad  the  way  to  show. 


204  WILL  THOMPSON 

Do  they  part  in  peace,  —  soul  with  its  clay? 
Tenant  and  landlord,  what  do  they  say? 
Was  it  sigh  of  sorrow  or  of  release 
I  heard  just  now  as  the  face  turned  gray? 

What  if,  aghast  on  the  shoreless  main 

Of  Eternity,  it  sought  again 

The  shelter  and  rest  of  the  isle  of  Time, 

And  knocked  at  the  door  of  its  house  of  pain! 

On  the  tavern  hearth  the  embers  glow, 
The  laugh  is  deep,  and  the  flagons  low; 
But  without,  the  wind  and  the  trackless  sky, 
And  night  at  the  gates  where  a  soul  would  go. 

Arthur  Sherburne  Hardy* 

THE  HIGH  TIDE  AT  GETTYSBURG 

A  CLOUD  possessed  the  hollow  field, 
The  gathering  battle's  smoky  shield. 
Athwart  the  gloom  the  lightning  flashed, 
And  through  the  cloud  some  horsemen  dashed, 
And  from  the  heights  the  thunder  pealed. 

Then  at  the  brief  command  of  Lee 
Moved  out  that  matchless  infantry, 
With  Pickett  leading  grandly  down, 
To  rush  against  the  roaring  crown 
Of  those  dread  heights  of  destiny. 

Far  heard  above  the  angry  guns 
A  cry  across  the  tumult  runs,  — 
The  voice  that  rang  through  Shiloh's  woods 


HIGH   TIDE   AT   GETTYSBURG    205 

And  Chickamauga's  solitudes, 

The  fierce  South  cheering  on  her  sons! 

Ah,  how  the  withering  tempest  blew 
Against  the  front  of  Pettigrew! 
A  Khamsin  wind  that  scorched  and  singed 
Like  that  infernal  flame  that  fringed 
The  British  squares  at  Waterloo! 

A  thousand  fell  where  Kemper  led; 
A  thousand  died  where  Garnett  bled: 
In  blinding  flame  and  strangling  smoke 
The  remnant  through  the  batteries  broke 
And  crossed  the  works  with  Armistead. 

"Once  more  in  Glory's  van  with  me!" 
Virginia  cried  to  Tennessee; 
"We  two  together,  come  what  may, 
Shall  stand  upon  these  works  to-day!" 
(The  reddest  day  in  history.) 

Brave  Tennessee!  In  reckless  way 
Virginia  heard  her  comrade  say : 
" Close  round  this  rent  and  riddled  rag!" 
What  time  she  set  her  battle-flag 
Amid  the  guns  of  Doubleday. 

But  who  shall  break  the  guards  that  wait 
Before  the  awful  face  of  Fate? 
The  tattered  standards  of  the  South 
Were  shriveled  at  th  3  cannon's  mouth, 
And  all  her  hopes  were  desolate. 


206  WILL  THOMPSON 

In  vain  the  Tennesseean  set 
His  breast  against  the  bayonet! 
In  vain  Virginia  charged  and  raged, 
A  tigress  in  her  wrath  uncaged, 
Till  all  the  hill  was  red  and  wet! 

Above  the  bayonets,  mixed  and  crossed, 
Men  saw  a  gray,  gigantic  ghost 
Receding  through  the  battle-cloud, 
And  heard  across  the  tempest  loud 
The  death-cry  of  a  nation  lost! 

The  brave  went  down !  Without  disgrace 
They  leaped  to  Ruin's  red  embrace. 
They  only  heard  Fame's  thunders  wake, 
And  saw  the  dazzling  sun-burst  break 
In  smiles  on  Glory's  bloody  face! 

They  fell,  who  lifted  up  a  hand 
And  bade  the  sun  in  heaven  to  stand! 
They  smote  and  fell,  who  set  the  bars 
Against  the  progress  of  the  stars, 
And  stayed  the  march  of  Motherland! 

They  stood,  who  saw  the  future  come 
On  through  the  fight's  delirium ! 
They  smote  and  stood,  who  held  the  hope 
Of  nations  on  that  slippery  slope 
Amid  the  cheers  of  Christendom. 

God  lives!  He  forged  the  iron  will 

That  clutched  and  held  that  trembling  hill. 


MONUMENT   TO   LORD   BYRON    207 

God  lives  and  reigns!  He  built  and  lent 
The  heights  for  Freedom's  battlement 
Where  floats  her  flag  in  triumph  still! 

Fold  up  the  banners!  Smelt  the  guns! 
Love  rules.   Her  gentler  purpose  runs. 
A  mighty  mother  turns  in  tears 
The  pages  of  her  battle  years, 
Lamenting  all  her  fallen  sons! 

WiU  Thompson 


ON  THE  PROPOSAL  TO  ERECT  A 

MONUMENT  IN  ENGLAND 

TO  LORD  BYRON 

THE  grass  of  fifty  Aprils  hath  waved  green 
Above  the  spent  heart,  the  Olympian  head, 

The  hands  crost  idly,  the  shut  eyes  unseen, 
Unseeing,  the  locked  lips  whose  song  hath  fled; 

Yet  mystic-lived,  like  some  rich,  tropic  flower, 

His  fame  puts  forth  fresh  blossoms  hour  by  hour; 

Wide  spread  the  laden  branches  dropping  dew 
On  the  low,  laurelled  brow  misunderstood, 
That  bent  not,  neither  bowed,  until  subdued 

By  the  last  foe  who  crowned  while  he  o'erthrew. 

Fair  was  the  Easter  Sabbath  morn  when  first 
Men  heard  he  had  not  wakened  to  its  light: 
The  end  had  come,  and  time  had  done  its  worst, 
For  the  black  cloud  had  fallen  of  endless  night. 
Then  in  the  town,  as  Greek  accosted  Greek, 
'T  was  not  the  wonted  festal  words  to  speak, 


208  EMMA   LAZARUS 

"Christ  is  arisen,"  but  "Our  chief  is  gone," 
With  such  wan  aspect  and  grief-smitten  head 
As  when  the  awful  cry  of  "Pan  is  dead!" 

Filled  echoing  hill  and  valley  with  its  moan. 

"  I  am  more  fit  for  death  than  the  world  deems," 
So  spake  he  as  life's  light  was  growing  dim, 

And  turned  to  sleep  as  unto  soothing  dreams. 
What  terrors  could  its  darkness  hold  for  him, 

Familiar  with  all  anguish,  but  with  fear 

Still  unacquainted?  On  his  martial  bier 

They  laid  a  sword,  a  helmet,  and  a  crown  — 
Meed  of  the  warrior,  but  not  these  among 
His  voiceless  lyre,  whose  silent  chords  unstrung 

Shall  wait  —  how  long?  —  for  touches  like  his  own. 

An  alien  country  mourned  him  as  her  son, 

And  hailed  him  hero:  his  sole,  fitting  tomb 
Were  Theseus'  temple  or  the  Parthenon, 

Fondly  she  deemed.   His  brethren  bare  him  home, 
Their  exiled  glory,  past  the  guarded  gate 
Where  England's  Abbey  shelters  England's  great. 
Afar  he  rests  whose  very  name  hath  shed 

New  lustre  on  her  with  the  song  he  sings. 

So  Shakespeare  rests  who  scorned  to  lie  with  kings, 
Sleeping  at  peace  midst  the  unhonored  dead. 

Emma  Lazarus. 

VENUS  OF  THE  LOUVRE 

DOWN  the  long  hall  she  glistens  like  a  star, 

The  foam-born  mother  of  Love,  transfixed  to  stone, 

Yet  none  the  less  immortal,  breathing  on. 

Time's  brutal  hand  hath  maimed  but  could  not  mar. 


DAYS   THAT   COME   AND   GO      909 

When  first  the  enthralled  enchantress  from  afar 
Dazzled  mine  eyes,  I  saw  her  not  alone, 
Serenely  poised  on  her  world-worshipped  throne, 
As  when  she  guided  once  her  dove-drawn  car,  — 
But  at  her  feet  a  pale,  death-stricken  Jew, 
Her  life  adorer,  sobbed  farewell  to  love. 
Here  Heine  wept !  Here  still  he  weeps  anew, 
Nor  ever  shall  his  shadow  lift  or  move, 
While  mourns  one  ardent  heart,  one  poet-brain, 
For  vanished  Hellas  and  Hebraic  pain. 

Emma  Lazarus. 


ONE 

ONE  whitest  lily,  reddest  rose, 
None  other  such  the  summer  knows; 
Of  bird  or  brook  one  perfect  tune, 
And  sung  is  all  the  sweet  of  June. 

Once  come  and  gone,  the  one  dear  face, 
Forever  empty  is  its  place; 
But  one  far  voice  the  lover  hears, 
Calling  across  the  waste  of  years. 

John  Vance  Cheney, 


DAYS   THAT  COME  AND  GO 

DAYS  that  come  and  go, 
It  is  not  worth  the  while; 

Only  one  dawn  I  know, 
The  morning  of  her  smile. 


210  INA   COOLBRITH 

Nights  that  come  and  go, 
In  vain  your  shadow  lies; 

Only  love's  dusk  I  know, 
The  evening  of  her  eyes. 

John  Vance  Cheney 

IN  EXPLANATION 

HER  lips  were  so  near 

That  —  what  else  could  I  do? 

You  '11  be  angry,  I  fear. 

But  her  lips  were  so  near  — 

Well,  I  can't  make  it  clear, 
Or  explain  it  to  you. 

But  —  her  lips  were  so  near 
That  —  what  else  could  I  do? 

Walter  Learned, 

FRUITIONLESS 

AH,  little  flower,  upspringing, 'azure-eyed, 
The  meadow-brook  beside, 

Dropping  delicious  balms 

Into  the  tender  palms 
Of  lover-winds,  that  woo  with  light  caress, 

In  still  contentedness, 
Living  and  blooming  thy  brief  summer-day:  — 

So,  wiser  far  than  I, 

That  only  dream  and  sigh, 
And,  sighing,  dream  my  listless  life  away. 

Ah!  sweetheart  birds,  a-building  your  wee  house 
In  the  broad-leaved  boughs, 


OBLIVION  211 


Pausing  with  merry  trill 
To  praise  each  other's  skill, 

And  nod  your  pretty  heads  with  pretty  pride; 
Serenely  satisfied 

To  trill  and  twitter  love's  sweet  roundelay:  — 
So,  happier  than  I, 
That,  lonely,  dream  and  sigh, 

And,  sighing,  dream  my  lonely  life  away. 

Brown-bodied  bees,  that  scent  with  nostrils  fine 
The  odorous  blossom-wine, 

Sipping,  with  heads  half  thrust 
Into  the  pollen  dust 
Of  rose  and  hyacinth  and  daffodil, 

To  hive,  in  amber  cell, 
A  honey  feasting  for  the  winter-day:  — 
So,  better  far  than  I, 
Self-wrapt,  that  dream  and  sigh, 
And  sighing,  dream  my  useless  life  away. 

Ina  Coolbrith. 


WHEN  THE  GRASS  SHALL  COVER  ME 

WHEN  the  grass  shall  cover  me, 
Head  to  foot  where  I  am  lying,  — 
When  not  any  wind  that  blows, 
Summer-blooms  nor  winter-snows, 
Shall  awake  me  to  your  sighing: 
Close  above  me  as  you  pass, 
You  will  say,  "How  kind  she  was," 
You  will  say,  "How  true  she  was,*' 
When  the  grass  grows  over  me. 


ARLO  BATES 


When  the  grass  shall  cover  me, 
Holden  close  to  earth's  warm  bosom,  — 
While  I  laugh,  or  weep,  cr  sing, 
Nevermore,  for  anything, 
You  will  find  in  blade  and  blossom, 
Sweet  small  voices,  odorous, 
Tender  pleaders  in  my  cause, 
That  shall  speak  me  as  I  was  — 
When  the  grass  grows  over  me. 

When  the  grass  shall  cover  me! 
Ah,  beloved,  in  my  sorrow 

Very  patient,  I  can  wait, 

Knowing  that,  or  soon  or  late, 
There  will  dawn  a  clearer  morrow: 

When  your  heart  will  moan:  "Alas! 

Now  I  know  how  true  she  was; 

Now  I  know  how  dear  she  was"  — 
When  the  grass  grows  over  me! 

Ina  Coolbritk* 

THE  POOL  OF  SLEEP 

I  DRAGGED  my  body  to  the  pool  of  sleep, 

Longing  to  drink;  but  ere  my  throbbing  lip 
From  the  cool  flood  one  Dives-drop  might  sip, 

The  wave  sank  fluctuant  to  some  unknown  deep. 

With  aching  eyes  that  could  not  even  weep, 
I  saw  the  dark,  deluding  water  slip, 
Slow  eddying,  down;  the  weeds  and  mosses  drip 

With  maddening  waste.  I  watched  the  sweet  tide  creep 

A  little  higher,  but  to  fall  more  fast. 

Fevered  and  wounded  in  the  strife  of  men 


WYNKEN,   BLYNKEN,   AND   NOD    213 

I  burned  with  anguish,  till,  endurance  past, 

The  fount  crept  upward;  sank,  and  rose  again, — 

Swelled  slowly,  slowly,  slowly,  —  till  at  last 

My  seared  lips  met  the  soothing  wave,  and 

^en  —  Arlo  Bates. 

WYNKEN,  BLYNKEN,  AND  NOD 

WYNKEN,  Blynken,  and  Nod  one  night 

Sailed  off  in  a  wooden  shoe,  — 
Sailed  on  a  river  of  crystal  light 

Into  a  sea  of  dew. 
,         "Where  are  you  going,  and  what  do  you  wish?" 

The  old  moon  asked  the  three. 
"  We  have  come  to  fish  for  the  herring-fish 
That  live  in  this  beautiful  sea; 
Nets  of  silver  and  gold  have  we/' 
Said  Wynken, 
Blynken, 
And  Nod. 

The  old  moon  laughed  and  sang  a  song, 

As  they  rocked  in  the  wooden  shoe; 
And  the  wind  that  sped  them  all  night  long 

Ruffled  the  waves  of  dew; 
The  little  stars  were  the  herring-fish 

That  lived  in  the  beautiful  sea. 
"Now  cast  your  nets  wherever  you  wish,  — 
Never  afeard  are  we!" 
So  cried  the  stars  to  the  fishermen  three, 
Wynken, 
Blynken, 
And  Nod. 


214  EUGENE   FIELD 

All  night  long  their  nets  they  threw 

To  the  stars  in  the  twinkling  foam,  — 
Then  down  from  the  skies  came  the  wooden  shoe, 

Bringing  the  fishermen  home : 
'T  was  all  so  pretty  a  sail,  it  seemed 

As  if  it  could  not  be; 
And  some  folk  thought  't  was  a  dream  they'd 

dreamed 

Of  sailing  that  beautiful  sea; 
But  I  shall  name  you  the  fishermen  three: 
Wynken, 
Blynken, 
And  Nod. 

Wynken  and  Blynken  are  two  little  eyes, 

And  Nod  is  a  little  head, 
And  the  wooden  shoe  that  sailed  the  skies 

Is  a  wee  one's  trundle-bed; 
So  shut  your  eyes  while  Mother  sings 

Of  wonderful  sights  that  be, 
And  you  shall  see  the  beautiful  things 
As  you  rock  on  the  misty  sea 
Where  the  old  shoe  rocked  the  fishermen  three,  — « 
Wynken, 
Blynken, 
And  Nod.  Eugene  Field. 

LITTLE  BOY  BLUE 

THE  little  toy  dog  is  covered  with  dust, 
But  sturdy  and  stanch  he  stands; 

And  the  little  toy  soldier  is  red  with  rust, 
And  his  musket  moulds  in  his  hands. 


TO   A   HURT   CHILD  215 

Time  was  when  the  little  toy  dog  was  new, 

And  the  soldier  was  passing  fair; 
And  that  was  the  time  when  our  Little  Boy  Blue 

Kissed  them  and  put  them  there. 

"Now,  don't  you  go  till  I  come,"  he  said, 

"And  don't  you  make  any  noise!" 
So,  toddling  off  to  his  trundle-bed, 

He  dreamt  of  the  pretty  toys; 
And,  as  he  was  dreaming,  an  angel  song 

Awakened  our  Little  Boy  Blue  — 
Oh!  the  years  are  many,  the  years  are  long, 

But  the  little  toy  friends  are  true! 

Ay,  faithful  to  Little  Boy  Blue  they  stand, 

Each  in  the  same  old  place, 
Awaiting  the  touch  of  a  little  hand, 

The  smile  of  a  little  face; 

And  they  wonder,  as  waiting  the  long  years 
through 

In  the  dust  of  that  little  chair, 
What  has  become  of  our  Little  Boy  Blue, 

Since  he  kissed  them  and  put  them  there. 

Eugene  Field. 

TO  A  HURT  CHILD 

WHAT,  are  you  hurt,  Sweet?  So  am  I; 

Cut  to  the  heart; 
Though  I  may  neither  moan  nor  cry, 

To  ease  the  smart. 

Where  was  it,  Love?  Just  here!  So  wide 
Upon  your  cheek! 


216   FLORENCE  EARLE  COATES 

Oh  happy  pain  that  needs  no  pride, 
And  may  dare  speak. 

Lay  here  your  pretty  head.  One  touch 

Will  heal  its  worst, 
While  I,  whose  wound  bleeds  overmuch, 

Go  all  unnursed. 

There,  Sweet.  Run  back  now  to  your  play, 

Forget  your  woes.v 
I  too  was  sorely  hurt  this  day,  — 

But  no  one  knows. 

Grace  Denio  Litchfield. 


THE  HOUSE  OF  PAIN 

UNTO  the  Prison  House  of  Pain  none  willingly  repair, — 

The  bravest  who  an  entrance  gain 
Reluctant  linger  there,  — 
For  Pleasure,  passing  by  that  door,  stays  not  to  cheer 

the  sight, 

And  Sympathy  but  muffles  sound  and  banishes  the 
light. 

Yet  in  the  Prison  House  of  Pain  things  full  of  beauty 

blow,  — 
Like  Christmas-roses,  which  attain 

Perfection  'mid  the  snow,  — 

Love,  entering,  in  his  mild  warmth  the  darkest  shad- 
ows melt, 

And  often,  where  the  hush  is  deep,  the  waft  of  wings 
is  felt. 


THE   WIND   OF   SORROW  217 

Ah,  me!    the  Prison  House  of  Pain!  —  what  lessons 

there  are  bought !  — 
Lessons  of  a  sublimer  strain 
Than  any  elsewhere  taught,  — 
Amid  its  loneliness  and  bloom,  grave  meanings  grow 

more  clear, 

For  to  no  earthly  dwelling-place  seems  God  so  strange- 
ly near! 

Florence  Earle  Coates. 

THE  SUNSHINE  OF  THINE  EYES 

THE  sunshine  of  thine  eyes, 

(O  still,  celestial  beam!) 
Whatever  it  touches  it  fills 

With  the  life  of  its  lambent  gleam. 

The  sunshine  of  thine  eyes, 

0  let  it' fall  on  me! 

Though  I  be  but  a  mote  of  the  air, 

1  could  turn  to  gold  for  thee! 

George  Parsons  Lathrop. 

THE  WIND  OF  SORROW 

THE  fire  of  love  was  burning,  yet  so  low 

That  in  the  dark  we  scarce  could  see  its  rays, 
And  in  the  light  of  perfect-placid  days 

Nothing  but  smouldering  embers  dull  and  slow. 

Vainly,  for  love's  delight,  we  sought  to  throw 
New  pleasures  on  the  pyre  to  make  it  blaze : 
In  life's  calm  air  and  tranquil-prosperous  ways 

We  missed  the  radiant  heat  of  long  ago. 


218  HENRY   VAN   DYKE 

Then  in  the  night,  a  night  of  sad  alarms, 
Bitter  with  pain  and  black  with  fog  of  fears, 

That  drove  us  trembling  to  each  other's  arms  — 
Across  the  gulf  of  darkness  and  salt  tears, 

Into  life's  calm  the  wind  of  sorrow  came, 

And  fanned  the  fire  of  love  to  clearest  flame. 

Henry  van  Dyke. 


THE  VEERY 

THE  moonbeams  over  Arno's  vale  in  silver  flood  were 
pouring, 

When  first  I  heard  the  nightingale  a  long-lost  love  de- 
ploring. 

So  passionate,  so  full  of  pain,  it  sounded  strange  and 
eerie; 

I  longed  to  hear  a  simpler  strain,  —  the  wood-notes 
of  the  veery. 

The  laverock  sings  a  bonny  lay  above  the  Scottish 

heather; 
It  sprinkles  down  from  far  away  like  light  and  love 

together; 
He  drops  the  golden  notes  to  greet  his  brooding  mate, 

his  dearie; 
I  only  know  one  song  more  sweet,  —  the  vespers  of 

the  veery. 

Tn  English  gardens,  green  and  bright  and   full  of 

fruity  treasure, 
I  heard  the  blackbird  with  delight  repeat  his  merry 

measure: 


JOY   OF  THE   MORNING  219 

The  ballad  was  a  pleasant  one,  the  tune  was  loud  and 

cheery, 
And  yet,  with  every  setting  sun,  I  listened  for  the 

veery. 

But  far  away,  and  far  away,  the  tawny  thrush  is  sing- 
ing; 

New  England  woods,  at  close  of  day,  with  that  clear 
chant  are  ringing: 

And  when  my  light  of  life  is  low,  and  heart  and  flesh 
are  weary, 

I  fain  would  hear,  before  I  go,  the  wood-notes  of  the 
veery. 

Henry  tan  Dyke, 

JOY  OF  THE  MORNING 

I  HEAR  you,  little  bird, 
Shouting  a-swing  above  the  broken  wall. 
Shout  louder  yet:  no  song  can  tell  it  all. 
Sing  to  my  soul  in  the  deep,  still  wood : 
'Tis  wonderful  beyond  the  wildest  word: 
I'd  tell  it,  too,  if  I  could. 

Oft  when  the  white  still  dawn 

Lifted  the  skies  and  pushed  the  hills  apart, 

I've  felt  it  like  a  glory  in  my  heart, 

(The  world's  mysterious  stir) 

But  had  no  throat  like  yours,  my  bird, 

Nor  such  a  listener. 

Edwin  Markham. 


220 EDWIN   MARKHAM 

A  LOOK  INTO  THE  GULF 

I  LOOKED  one  night,  and  there  Semiramis, 
With  all  her  mourning  doves  about  her  head, 
Sat  rocking  on  an  ancient  road  of  Hell, 
Withered  and  eyeless,  chanting  to  the  moon 
Snatches  of  song  they  sang  to  her  of  old 
Upon  the  lighted  roofs  of  Nineveh. 
And  then  her  voice  rang  out  with  rattling  laugh; 
"The  bugles!  they  are  crying  back  again  — 
Bugles  that  broke  the  nights  of  Babylon, 
And  then  went  crying  on  through  Nineveh. 

Stand  back,  ye  trembling  messengers  of  ill ! 

Women,  let  go  my  hair:  I  am  the  Queen, 

A  whirlwind  and  a  blaze  of  swords  to  quell 

Insurgent  cities.   Let  the  iron  tread 

Of  armies  shake  the  earth.  Look,  lofty  towers: 

Assyria  goes  by  upon  the  wind!" 

And  so  she  babbles  by  the  ancient  road, 

While  cities  turned  to  dust  upon  the  Earth 

Rise  through  her  whirling  brain  to  live  again  — 

Babbles  all  night,  and  when  her  voice  is  dead 

Her  weary  lips  beat  on  without  a  sound. 

Edwin  Markham. 

LION  AND  LIONESS 

ONE  night  we  were  together,  you  and  I, 
And  had  unsown  Assyria  for  a  lair, 
Before  the  walls  of  Babylon  rose  in  air. 
Low  languid  hills  were  heaped  along  the  sky. 
And  white  bones  marked  the  wells  of  alkali. 


BROWNING   AT  ASOLO  221 

When  suddenly  down  the  lion-path  a  sound  .  .  . 
The  wild  man-odor  .  .  .  then  a  crouch,  a  bound, 
And  the  frail  Thing  fell  quivering  with  a  cry! 

Your  yellow  eyes  burned  beautiful  with  light: 
The  dead  man  lay  there  quieted  and  white: 
I  roared  my  triumph  over  the  desert  wide, 
Then  stretched  out,  glad  of  the  sands  and  satis- 
fied; 

And  through  the  long,  star-stilled  Assyrian  night, 
I  felt  your  body  breathing  by  my  side. 

Edwin  Markham. 

BROWNING  AT  ASOLO 

THIS  is  the  loggia  Browning  loved, 

High  on  the  flank  of  the  friendly  town; 

These  are  the  hills  that  his  keen  eye  roved, 
The  green  like  a  cataract  leaping  down 
To  the  plain  that  his  pen  gave  new  renown. 

There  to  the  West  what  a  range  of  blue!  — 
The  very  background  Titian  drew 

To  his  peerless  Loves!  O  tranquil  scene! 
Who  than  thy  poet  fondlier  knew 

The  peaks  and  the  shore  and  the  lore  be- 
tween? 

See !   yonder 's  his  Venice  —  the  valiant  Spire, 

Highest  one  of  the  perfect  three, 
Guarding  the  others:  the  Palace  choir, 
The  Temple  flashing  with  opal  fire  — 

Bubble  and  foam  of  the  sunlit  sea. 


222     ROBERT   UNDERWOOD   JOHNSON 

Yesterday  he  was  part  of  it  all  — 
Sat  here,  discerning  cloud  from  snow 
In  the  flush  of  the  Alpine  afterglow, 
Or  mused  on  the  vineyard  whose  wine-stirred 
row 

Meets  in  a  leafy  bacchanal. 

Listen  a  moment  —  how  oft  did  he!  — 
To  the  bells  from  Fontalto's  distant  tower 

Leading  the  evening  in  ...  ah,  me! 

Here  breathes  the  whole  soul  of  Italy 

As  one  rose  breathes  with  the  breath  of  the 
bower. 

Sighs  were  meant  for  an  hour  like  this 

When  joy  is  keen  as  a  thrust  of  pain. 
Do  you  wonder  the  poet's  heart  should  miss 
This  touch  of  rapture  in  Nature's  kiss 
And  dream  of  Asolo  ever  again? 

"Part  of  it  yesterday,"  we  moan? 

Nay,  he  is  part  of  it  now,  no  fear. 
WThat  most  we  love  we  are  that  alone. 
His  body  lies  under  the  Minster  stone, 

But  the  love  of  the  warm  heart  lingers  here. 

Robert  Underwood  Johnson. 

LOVE  AND  ITALY 

THEY  halted  at  the  terrace  wall; 

Below,  the  towered  city  lay; 
The  valley  in  the  moonlight's  thrall 

Was  silent  in  a  swoon  of  Mav. 


HER   PICTURE  223 

As  hand  to  hand  spake  one  soft  word 

Beneath  the  friendly  ilex-tree, 
They  knew  not,  of  the  flame  that  stirred, 

What  part  was  Love,  what  Italy. 

They  knew  what  makes  the  moon  more  bright 

Where  Beatrice  and  Juliet  are,  — 
The  sweeter  perfume  in  the  night, 

The  lovelier  starlight  in  the  star; 
And  more  that  glowing  hour  did  prove 

Beneath  the  sheltering  ilex-tree,  — 
That  Italy  transfigures  Love 

As  Love  transfigures  Italy. 

Robert  Underwood  Johnson. 

HER  PICTURE 

AUTUMN  was  cold  in  Plymouth  town; 

The  wind  ran  round  the  shore, 
Now  softly  passing  up  and  down, 
Now  wild  and  fierce  and  fleet, 

Wavering  overhead, 
Moaning  in  the  narrow  street 
As  one  beside  the  dead. 

The  leaves  of  wrinkled  gold  and  brown 

Fluttered  here  and  there, 

But  not  quite  heedless  where; 
For  as  in  hood  and  sad-hued  gown 

The  Rose  of  Plymouth  took  the  air, 
They  whirled,  and  whirled,  and  fell  to  rest 

Upon  her  gentle  breast, 
Then  on  the  happy  earth  her  foot  had  pressed. 


224        JAMES   WHITCOMB   RILEY 

Autumn  is  wild  in  Plymouth  town, 

Barren  and  bleak  and  cold, 
And  still  the  dead  leaves  flutter  down 

As  the  years  grow  old. 
And  still  —  forever  gravely  fair  — 

Beneath  their  fitful  whirl, 

New  England's  sweetest  girl, 
Rose  Standish,  takes  the  air. 

Ellen  Mackay  Hutchinson. 

WHEN  SHE  COMES  HOME1 

WHEN  she  comes  home  again !  A  thousand  ways 

I  fashion,  to  myself,  the  tenderness 

Of  my  glad  welcome:  I  shall  tremble  —  yes; 

And  touch  her,  as  when  first  in  the  old  days 

I  touched  her  girlish  hand,  nor  dared  upraise 

Mine  eyes,  such  was  my  faint  heart's  sweet  distress. 

Then  silence :  and  the  perfume  of  her  dress : 

The  room  will  sway  a  little,  and  a  haze 

Cloy  eyesight  —  soulsight,  even  —  for  a  space; 

And  tears  —  yes;  and  the  ache  here  in  the  throat, 

To  know  that  I  so  ill  deserve  the  place 

Her  arms  make  for  me;  and  the  sobbing  note 

I  stay  with  kisses,  ere  the  tearful  face 

Again  is  hidden  in  the  old  embrace. 

James  Whitcomb  Riley. 

1  Prom  the  Biographical  Edition  of  The  Complete  Works  of 
James  Whitcomb  Riley.  Copyright,  1913.  Used  by  special 
permission  of  the  publishers,  The  Bobbs-Merrill  Company. 


THE   OLD   MAN   AND   JIM          225 

BEREAVED l 

LET  me  come  in  where  you  sit  weeping,  —  aye, 
Let  me,  who  have  not  any  child  to  die, 
Weep  with  you  for  the  little  one  whose  love 
I  have  known  nothing  of. 

The  little  arms  that  slowly,  slowly  loosed 
Their  pressure  round  your  neck;  the  hands  you  used 
To  kiss.  —  Such  arms  —  such  hands  I  never  knew. 
May  I  not  weep  with  you? 

Fain  would  I  be  of  service  —  say  some  thing, 
Between  the  tears,  that  would  be  comforting,  — 
But  ah!  so  sadder  than  yourselves  am  I, 
Who  have  no  child  to  die. 

James  Whitcomb  Riley< 

THE  OLD  MAN  AND  JIM1 

OLD  man  never  had  much  to  say  — 

'Ceptin'  to  Jim,  — 
And  Jim  was  the  wildest  boy  he  had, 

And  the  old  man  jes'  wrapped  up  in  him ! 
Never  heerd  him  speak  but  once 
Er  twice  in  my  life,  —  and  first  time  was 
When  the  army  broke  out,  and  Jim  he  went, 
The  old  man  backin'  him,  fer  three  months; 
And  all  'at  I  heerd  the  old  man  say 
Was,  jes'  as  we  turned  to  start  away,  — 

1  From  the  Biographical  Edition  of  Tfie  Complete  Works  of 
James  Whitcomb  Riley.  Copyright,  1913.  Used  by  special 
permission  of  the  publishers,  The  Bobbs-Merrill  Companyc 


226         JAMES   WHITCOMB   RILEY 

"Well,  good-bye,  Jim: 
Take  keer  of  yourse'f ! " 

'Feared  like  he  was  more  satisfied 

Jes'  lookin'  at  Jim 
And  likin'  him  all  to  hisse'f-like,  see?  — 

'Cause  he  was  jes'  wrapped  up  in  him! 
And  over  and  over  I  mind  the  day 
The  old  man  come  and  stood  round  in  the  way 
While  we  was  drillin',  a-watchin'  Jim; 
And  down  at  the  deepot  a-heerin'  him  say,  — 

"Well,  good-bye,  Jim: 

Take  keer  of  yourse'f!" 

Never  was  nothin'  about  the  farm 

Disting'ished  Jim; 
Neighbors  all  ust  to  wonder  why 

The  old  man  'peared  wrapped  up  in  him : 
But  when  Cap.  Biggler,  he  writ  back 
'At  Jim  was  the  bravest  boy  we  had 
In  the  whole  dern  rigiment,  white  er  black, 
And  his  fightin'  good  as  his  farmin'  bad,  — 
'At  he  had  led,  with  a  bullet  clean 
Bored  through  his  thigh,  and  carried  the  flag 
Through  the  bloodiest  battle  you  ever  seen,  — 
The  old  man  wound  up  a  letter  to  him 
'At  Cap.  read  to  us,  'at  said, — "Tell  Jim  Good-bye: 

And  take  keer  of  hisse'f !" 

Jim  come  home  jes'  long  enough 

To  take  the  whim 
'At  he  'd  like  to  go  back  in  the  calvery  — 

And  the  old  man  jes'  wrapped  up  in  him! 


THE   OLD   MAN   AND   JIM          227 

Jim  'lowed  'at  he'd  had  sich  luck  afore, 
Guessed  he'd  tackle  her  three  years  more. 
And  the  old  man  give  him  a  colt  he  'd  raised, 
And  follered  him  over  to  Camp  Ben  Wade, 
And  laid  around  fer  a  week  er  so, 
Watchin'  Jim  on  dress-parade; 
'Tel  finally  he  rid  away, 
And  last  he  heerd  was  the  old  man  say,  — 

"Well,  good-bye,  Jim: 

Take  keer  of  yourse'f !" 

Tuk  the  papers,  the  old  man  did, 

A-watchin'  fer  Jim, 
Fully  believin'  he'd  make  his  mark 

Some  way  —  jes'  wrapped  up  in  him! 
And  many  a  time  the  word  'ud  come 
'At  stirred  him  up  like  the  tap  of  a  drum 
At  Petersburg,  fer  instunce,  where 
Jim  rid  right  into  their  cannons  there, 
And  tuk  'em,  and  p'inted  'em  t'other  way 
And  socked  it  home  to  the  boys  in  gray, 
As  they  skooted  fer  timber,  and  on  and  on  — 
Jim  a  lieutenant,  —  and  one  arm  gone,  — 
And  the  old  man's  words  in  his  mind  all  day,  — 

"Well,  good-bye,  Jim: 

Take  keer  of  yourse'f!" 

Think  of  a  private,  now,  perhaps, 

We'll  say  like  Jim, 
'At's  dumb  clean  up  to  the  shoulder-straps  — 

And  the  old  man  jes'  wrapped  up  in  him! 
Think  of  him  —  with  the  war  plum'  through, 
And  the  glorious  old  Red-White-and-Blue 


228         SAMUEL  MINTURN   PECK 

A-laughin'  the  news  down  over  Jim, 
And  the  old  man,*  bendin'  over  him  — 
The  surgeon  turnin'  away  with  tears 
'At  had  n't  leaked  fer  years  and  years, 
As  the  hand  of  the  dyin'  boy  clung  to 
His  Father's,  the  old  voice  in  his  ears,  — 

"Well,  good-bye,  Jim: 

Take  keer  of  yourse'f !" 

James  Whitcomb  Riley. 


THE  CAPTAIN'S  FEATHER 

THE  dew  is  on  the  heather, 

The  moon  is  in  the  sky, 
And  the  captain's  waving  feather 

Proclaims  the  hour  is  nigh 
When  some  upon  their  horses 

Shall  through  the  battle  ride, 
And  some  with  bleeding  corses 

Must  on  the  heather  bide. 

The  dust  is  on  the  heather, 

The  moon  is  in  the  sky, 
And  about  the  captain's  feather 

The  bolts  of  battle  fly; 
But  hark,  what  sudden  wonder 

Breaks  forth  upon  the  gloom? 
It  is  the  cannon's  thunder  — 

It  is  the  voice  of  doom! 

The  blood  is  on  the  heather, 
The  night  is  in  the  sky, 


THE   DAISIES 


And  the  gallant  captain's  feather 

Shall  wave  no  more  on  high; 
The  grave  and  holy  brother 

To  God  is  saying  Mass, 
But  who  shall  tell  his  mother, 

And  who  shall  tell  his  lass? 

Samuel  Minturn  Peck. 


THE  DAISIES 

ONCE  I  came  to  Siena, 

Traveling  waywardly; 
I  sought  not  church  nor  palace; 

I  did  not  care  to  see. 
In  the  little  park  at  Siena, 

Her  famous  ways  untrod, 
I  laid  me  down  in  the  springtime 

Upon  the  daisied  sod. 
New,  but  not  unfamiliar, 

Of  my  boyhood  seemed  the  scene  - 
The  hillsides  of  Judaea, 

And  Turner's  pines  between; 
And  tenderly  the  rugged, 

Volcanic  rock-lands  bare, 
Warm  in  the  April  weather, 

Slept  in  the  melting  air. 
'T  was  April  in  the  valleys; 

'T  was  April  in  the  sky; 
And  from  the  tufted  locusts 

The  sweet  scent  wandered  by; 
But  strange  to  me  the  sunshine, 

And  strange  the  growing  grass; 


230         HENRY   CUYLER  BUNNER 

To  the  branch  that  cannot  blossom 

How  cold  doth  April  pass ! 
As  lovers,  when  love  is  over, 

Remembering  seem  men  dead, 
Down  on  the  warm  bright  daisies, 

Earth's  lover,  I  laid  my  head; 
And  whence  or  why  I  know  not, 

At  the  touch  my  eyes  were  dim, 
And  I  knew  that  these  were  the  daisies 

That  Keats  felt  grow  o'er  him. 

George  Edward  Woodberry. 


DIVINE  AWE 

To  tremble,  when  I  touch  her  hands, 
With  awe  that  no  man  understands; 
To  feel  soft  reverence  arise 
When,  lover-sweet,  I  meet  her  eyes; 
To  see  her  beauty  grow  and  shine 
When  most  I  feel  this  awe  divine,  — 
Whate'er  befall  me,  this  is  mine; 
And  where  about  the  room  she  moves, 
My  spirit  follows  her,  and  loves. 

George  Edward  Woodberry, 


STRONG  AS  DEATH 

O  DEATH,  when  thou  shalt  come  to  me 
From  out  thy  dark,  where  she  is  now, 

Come  not  with  graveyard  smell  on  thee, 
Or  withered  roses  on  thy  brow. 


WISE  231 

Come  not,  O  Death,  with  hollow  tone, 
And  soundless  step,  and  clammy  hand — 

Lo,  I  am  now  no  less  alone 

Than  in  thy  desolate,  doubtful  land; 

But  with  that  sweet  and  subtle  scent 

That  ever  clung  about  her  (such 
As  with  all  things  she  brushed  was  blent) ; 
And  with  her  quick  and  tender  touch. 

With  the  dim  gold  that  lit  her  hair, 

Crown  thyself,  Death;  let  fall  thy  tread 

So  light  that  I  may  dream  her  there. 
And  turn  upon  my  dying  bed. 

And  through  my  chilling  veins  shall  flame 
My  love,  as  though  beneath  her  breath; 

And  in  her  voice  but  call  my  name, 
And  I  will  follow  thee,  O  Death. 

Henry  Cuylev  Bunney, 

WISE 

AN  apple  orchard  smells  like  wine; 

A  succory  flower  is  blue; 
Until  Grief  touched  these  eyes  of  mine, 

Such  things  I  never  knew. 

And  now  indeed  I  know  so  plain 

Why  one  would  like  to  cry 
When  sprouts  are  full  of  April  rain  — 

Such  lonely  folk  go  by! 


232        CHARLES   HENRY   LUDERS 

So  wise,  so  wise  —  that  my  tears  fall 

Each  breaking  of  the  dawn; 
That  I  do  long  to  tell  you  all  — 

But  you  are  dead  and  gone. 

Lizette  Woodworth  Reese 

IN  TIME  OF  GRIEF 

DARK,  thinned,  beside  the  wall  of  stone, 

The  box  dripped  in  the  air; 
Its  odor  through  my  house  was  blown 

Into  the  chamber  there. 

Remote  and  yet  distinct  the  scent, 

The  sole  thing  of  the  kind, 
As  though  one  spoke  a  word  half  meant 

That  left  a  sting  behind. 

I  knew  not  Grief  would  go  from  me 

And  naught  of  it  be  plain, 
Except  how  keen  the  box  can  be 

After  a  fall  of  rain. 

Lizette  Woodworth  Reese. 

THE  FOUR  WINDS 

WIND  of  the  North, 

Wind  of  the  Norland  snows, 

Wind  of  the  winnowed  skies  and  sharp,  clear  stars — • 

Blow  cold  and  keen  across  the  naked  hills, 

And  crisp  the  lowland  pools  with  crystal  films, 

And  blur  the  casement-squares  with  glittering  ice, 

But  go  not  near  my  love. 


THE   OLD   SOUL  233 

Wind  of  the  West, 

Wind  of  the  few,  far  clouds, 

WTind  of  the  gold  and  crimson  sunset  lands  — 

Blow  fresh  and  pure  across  the  peaks  and  plains, 

And  broaden  the  blue  spaces  of  the  heavens, 

And  sway  the  grasses  and  the  mountain  pines, 

But  let  my  dear  one  rest. 

Wind  of  the  East, 

Wind  of  the  sunrise  seas, 

Wind  of  the  clinging  mists  and  gray,  harsh  rains  — 

Blow  moist  and  chill  across  the  wastes  of  brine, 

And  shut  the  sun  out,  and  the  moon  and  stars, 

And  lash  the  boughs  against  the  dripping  eaves, 

Yet  keep  thou  from  my  love. 

But  thou,  sweet  wind! 

Wind  of  the  fragrant  South, 

Wind  from  the  bowers  of  jasmine  and  of  rose!  — 

Over  magnolia  blooms  and  lilied  lakes 

And  flowering  forests  come  with  dewy  wings, 

And  stir  the  petals  at  her  feet,  and  kiss 

The  low  mound  where  she  lies. 

Charles  Henry  Liiders 

THE  OLD  SOUL 

"  Not  in  entire  forgetfulness." 

THE  Old  Soul  came  from  far, 

Beyond  the  unlit  bound; 
There  had  gone  out  a  star, 

And  a  great  world  was  drowned, 


234  EDITH   M.    THOMAS 

Since  birth  and  death  and  birth 
Were  hers,  upon  the  earth. 

For  she  had  robed  anew 

Time  and  time  out  of  mind; 

And,  as  the  sphere  of  dew 
Unshapes  into  the  wind, 

Her  raiment  oft  had  cast 

Into  the  wasting  past. 

There  was  no  dizzying  height 
She  had  not  sometime  trod, 

No  dungeon  known  of  night 
But  she  had  felt  its  rod; 

The  saint,  assoiled  from  sin  — 

The  saint's  arch-foe  —  had  been! 

At  cruel  feasts  she  sate, 

Where  heartless  mirth  ran  high; 

Through  famine's  portal  strait 
Had  fled  with  wailful  cry; 

All  human  fates  had  proved, 

And  those  from  man  removed. 

Yea,  she  had  worn  the  guise 

Of  creatures  lashed  and  spurned  - 

Even  of  those  whose  eyes 

May  not  on  heaven  be  turned; 

No  house  too  dark  or  base 

To  be  her  tarrying-place ! 

The  Old  Soul  came  from  far; 
And,  all  lives  having  known, 


EVOE'  235 

She  nowhere  touched  a  bar, 

But  all  was  as  her  own: 
And  this  could  none  forget, 
Who  once  her  look  had  met! 

The  Old  Soul  came  from  far, 
Moving  through  days  and  ways 

That  are  not  —  and  that  are! 
She  turned  on  all  her  gaze  — 

Illumed,  —  deceived  —  illumed; 

Yet  still  the  road  resumed. 

The  Old  Soul  came  from  far, 
And  toward  the  far  she  drew. 

"Turn  home,  mine  avatar!" 
That  voice,  long  lost,  she  knew; 

She  heard,  she  turned  —  was  free  — 

No  more  to  dream,  but  Be! 

Edith  M.  Thomas. 

EVOE! 

B  Many  are  the  wand  bearers,  few  are  the  true  bacchanals." 

MANY  are  the  wand-bearers; 

Their  windy  shouts  I  hear, 
Along  the  hillside  vineyard, 

And  where  the  wine  runs  clear; 
They  show  the  vine-leaf  chaplet, 

The  ivy-wreathen  spear. 
But  the  god,  the  true  lacchus, 

He  does  not  hold  them  dear. 

Many  are  the  wand-bearers, 
And  bravely  are  they  clad; 


236  EDITH   M.    THOMAS 

Yes,  they  have  all  the  tokens 

His  early  lovers  had. 
They  sing  the  master-passions, 

Themselves  unsad,  unglad; 
And  the  god,  the  true  lacchus  — 

He  knows  they  are  not  mad! 

Many  are  the  wand-bearers; 

The  fawn-skin  bright  they  wear; 
There  are  among  them  maenads 

That  rave  with  unbound  hair. 
They  toss  the  harmless  firebrand  — 

It  spends  itself  in  air: 
And  the  god,  the  true  lacchus, 

He  smiles  —  and  does  not  care. 

Many  are  the  wand-bearers, 

And  who  (ye  ask)  am  I? 
One  who  was  born  in  madness, 

"Evoe"!  my  first  cry  — 
Who  dares,  before  your  spear-points, 

To  challenge  and  defy; 
And  the  god,  the  true  lacchus, 

go  keep  me  till  I  die! 

Many  are  the  wand-bearers. 

I  bear  with  me  no  sign; 
Yet  I  was  mad,  was  drunken, 

Ere  yet  I  tasted  wine; 
Nor  bleeding  grape  can  slacken 

The  thirst  wherewith  I  pine; 
And  the  god,  the  true  lacchus, 

Hears  now  this  song  of  mine. 

Edith  M.  Thomas. 


INTERLUDE  237 


SONNET 

METHINKS  ofttimes  my  heart  is  like  some  bee 

That   goes  forth   through   the   summer  days  and 

sings, 

And  gathers  honey  from  all  growing  things 
In  garden  plot,  or  on  the  clover  lea. 
When  the  long  afternoon  grows  late,  and  she 
Would  seek  her  hive,  she  cannot  lift  her  wings, 
So  heavily  the  too  sweet  burden  clings, 
From  which  she  would  not,  and  yet  would,  fly  free. 
So  with  my  full  fond  heart;  for  when  it  tries 
To  lift  itself  to  peace-crowned  heights,  above 

The  common  way  where  countless  feet  have  trod, 
Lo!  then  this  burden  of  dear  human  ties, 

This  growing  weight  of  precious  earthly  love, 
Bends  down  the  spirit  that  would  soar  to  God. 
Ella  Wheeler  Wikox. 

INTERLUDE 

THE  days  grow  shorter,  the  nights  grow  longer, 
The  headstones  thicken  along  the  way; 

And  life  grows  sadder,  but  love  grows  stronger 
For  those  who  walk  with  us,  day  by  day. 

The  tear  comes  quicker,  the  laugh  comes  slower, 
The  courage  is  lesser  to  do  and  dare; 

And  the  tide  of  joy  in  the  heart  runs  lower 
And  seldom  covers  the  reefs  of  care. 

But  all  true  things  in  the  world  seem  truer, 
And  the  better  things  of  the  earth  seem  best; 


238    WILLIAM   HERBERT   CARRUTH 

And  friends  are  dearer  as  friends  are  fewer, 
And  love  is  all  as  our  sun  dips  west. 

Then  let  us  clasp  hands  as  we  walk  together, 
And  let  us  speak  softly,  in  love's  sweet  tone. 

For  no  man  knows,  on  the  morrow,  whether 
We  two  pass  by,  or  but  one  alone. 

Ella  Wheeler  Wilcox. 

THE  WORLD'S  NEED 

So  many  gods,  so  many  creeds, 

So  many  paths  that  wind  and  wind, 
While  just  the  art  of  being  kind 

Is  all  the  sad  world  needs. 

Ella  Wheeler  Wilcox. 


EACH  IN  HIS  OWN  TONGUE 

A  FIRE-MIST  and  a  planet,  — 

A  crystal  and  a  cell,  — 
A  jelly-fish  and  a  saurian, 

And  caves  where  the  cave-men  dwell; 
Then  a  sense  of  law  and  beauty, 

And  a  face  turned  from  the  clod,  — 
Some  call  it  Evolution, 

And  others  call  it  God. 

A  haze  on  the  far  horizon, 

The  infinite,  tender  sky, 
The  ripe,  rich  tint  of  the  cornfields, 

And  the  wild  geese  sailing  high,  — 


OPPORTUNITY 


And  all  over  upland  and  lowland 
The  charm  of  the  goldenrod,  — 

Some  of  us  call  it  Autumn, 
And  others  call  it  God. 

Like  tides  on  a  crescent  sea-beach, 

When  the  moon  is  new  and  thin, 
Into  our  hearts  high  yearnings 

Come  welling  and  surging  in,  — 
Come  from  the  mystic  ocean 

Whose  rim  no  foot  has  trod,  — 
Some  of  us  call  it  Longing, 

And  others  call  it  God. 

A  picket  frozen  on  duty,  — 

A  mother  starved  for  her  brood,  — 
Socrates  drinking  the  hemlock, 

And  Jesus  on  the  rood; 
And  millions  who,  humble  and  nameless, 

The  straight,  hard  pathway  plod,  — 
Some  call  it  Consecration, 

And  others  call  it  God. 

William  Herbert  Carruth. 

OPPORTUNITY 

MASTER  of  human  destinies  am  I! 

Fame,  love,  and  fortune  on  my  footsteps  wait.. 

Cities  and  fields  I  walk;  I  penetrate 

Deserts  and  seas  remote,  and  passing  by 

Hovel  and  mart  and  palace  —  soon  or  late 

I  knock,  unbidden,  once  at  every  gate! 

If  sleeping,  wake  —  if  feasting,  rise  before 


240  WALTER  MALONE 

I  turn  away.  It  is  the  hour  of  fate, 

And  they  who  follow  me  reach  everj  state 

Mortals  desire,  and  conquer  every  foe 

Save  death;  but  those  who  doubt  or  hesitate, 

Condemned  to  failure,  penury,  and  woe, 

Seek  me  in  vain  and  uselessly  implore. 

I  answer  not,  and  I  return  no  more! 

John  James  Ingalls. 

OPPORTUNITY 

THEY  do  me  wrong  who  say  I  come  no  more 
When  once  I  knock  and  fail  to  find  you  in; 

For  every  day  I  stand  outside  your  door 

And  bid  you  wake,  and  rise  to  fight  and  win. 

Wail  not  for  precious  chances  passed  away ! 

Weep  not  for  golden  ages  on  the  wane ! 
Each  night  I  burn  the  records  of  the  day  — 

At  sunrise  every  soul  is  born  again! 

Dost  thou  behold  thy  lost  youth  all  aghast? 

Dost  reel  from  righteous  Retribution's  blow? 
Then  turn  from  blotted  archives  of  the  past 

And  find  the  future's  pages  white  as  snow. 

Art  thou  a  mourner?  Rouse  thee  from  thy  spell; 

Art  thou  a  sinner?  Sins  may  be  forgiven; 
Each  morning  gives  thee  wings  to  flee  from  hell, 

Each  night  a  star  to  guide  thy  feet  to  heaven. 

Laugh  like  a  boy  at  splendors  that  have  sped, 
To  vanished  joys  be  blind  and  deaf  and  dumb; 


THE   CRICKET 241 

My  judgments  seal  the  dead  past  with  its  dead, 
But  never  bind  a  moment  yet  to  come. 

Though  deep  in  mire,  wring  not  your  hands  and 

weep; 

I  lend  my  arm  to  all  who  say  "I  can!" 

No  shame-faced  outcast  ever  sank  so  deep 

But  yet  might  rise  and  be  again  a  man! 

Walter  M  alone. 

THE  RACERS 

TIME  at  my  elbow  plucks  me  sore; 

Yet  I  '11  not  slack  my  pace  to  hear 
The  one  sad  word  which,  o'er  and  o'er, 

He  whispers  in  my  ear. 

Upon  my  hair  he  dusts  his  rime; 

I  shake  my  head  full  laughingly, 
For  howsoever  fleet  be  Time, 

He  shall  not  outstrip  me. 

James  B.  Kenyan* 

THE  CRICKET 

PIPER  of  the  fields  and  woods 
And  the  fragrant  solitudes, 
When  the  trees  are  stripped  of  leaves, 
And  the  choked  brook  sobs  and  grieves; 
When  the  golden-rod  alone 
Feigns  the  summer  hath  not  flown; 
Then  while  evening  airs  grow  chill, 
And  the  flocks  upon  the  hill 


242  JAMES   B.   KENYON 

Huddle  in  the  waning  light, 
Thou,  ere  falls  the  frosty  night, 
To  the  kine  that  homeward  pass 
Pipest  'mid  the  stiffening  grass. 
Dark  may  dawn  the  winter  days,  — 
Where  thou  art  the  summer  stays; 
Though  the  ruffian  north  winds  roar, 
Lash  the  roof  and  smite  the  door, 
Thou  from  hearths  secure  and  warm 
Laughest  at  the  brewing  storm, 
And  thy  merry  minstrelsy 
Sets  the  frozen  fancy  free. 
Dost  thou  dream,  O  piper  brave, 
That  from  his  sea-haunted  grave 
He  who  praised  thy  song  of  yore 
Hath  come  back  to  hear  once  more, 
Through  high  noons,  thy  strident  strain 
Borne  o'er  Enna's  saffron  plain? 
Long,  long  since  the  nectared  hoard 
That  the  yellow  bees  have  stored 
In  the  turf  above  thy  head 
Hath,  by  many  a  passing  tread 
O'er  the  chamber  of  his  sleep, 
In  the  dust  been  trampled  deep. 
From  his  lentisk  couch  of  rest, 
In  his  shaggy  goat-skin  vest,         f 
He  shall  rise  no  more  to  hear, 
With  the  poet's  raptured  ear, 
O'er  the  thymy  pastures  swell 
Morning  sounds  he  loved  so  well. 
Other  skies  are  over  us, 
And  afar  Theocritus 
Slumbers  deep,  O  piper  small, 


PREVISION  MS 


And  he  will  not  heed  at  all 
Though  be  struck  thy  shrillest  notes; 
Yet  a  voice  like  thine  still  floats 
O'er  him  where  thy  shy  kin  be 
'Mid  the  dews  of  Sicily. 

James  B.  Kenyan. 

PREVISION 

On,  days  of  beauty  standing  veiled  apart, 
With  dreamy  skies  and  tender,  tremulous  air, 

In  this  rich  Indian  summer  of  the  heart 
Well  may  the  earth  her  jewelled  halo  wear. 

The  long  brown  fields  —  no  longer  drear  and  dull  — 
Burn  with  the  glow  of  these  deep-hearted  hours, 

Until  the  dry  weeds  seem  more  beautiful, 
More  spiritlike  than  even  summer's  flowers. 

But  yesterday  the  world  was  stricken  bare, 
Left  old  and  dead  in  gray,  enshrouding  gloom; 

To-day  what  vivid  wonder  of  the  air 

Awakes  the  soul  of  vanished  light  and  bloom? 

Sharp  with  the  clean,  fine  ecstasy  of  death, 

A  mightier  wind  shall  strike  the  shrinking  earth, 

An  exhalation  of  creative  breath 

Wake  the  white  wonder  of  the  winter's  birth. 

In  her  wide  Pantheon  —  her  temple  place  — 

Wrapped  in  strange  beauty  and  new  comforting, 

We  shall  not  miss  the  Summer's  full-blown  grace, 
Nor  hunger  for  the  swift,  exquisite  Spring. 

Ada  Foster  Murray. 


MA    FRANK   DEMPSTER  SHERMAN 

THE  SPIRIT  OF  THE  FALL 

COME,  on  thy  swaying  feet, 

Wild  Spirit  of  the  Fall! 

With  wind-blown  skirts,  loose  hair  of  russet-brown, 

Crowned  with  bright  berries  of  the  bittersweet. 

Trip  a  light  measure  with  the  hurrying  leaf, 

Straining  thy  few  late  roses  to  thy  breast, 

With  laughter  over-gay,  sweet  eyes  drooped  down, 

That  none  may  guess  thy  grief. 

Dare  not  to  pause  for  rest 

Lest  the  slow  tears  should  gather  to  their  fall. 

But  when  the  cold  moon  rises  o'er  the  hill, 
The  last  numb  crickets  cease,  and  all  is  still, 
Face  down  thou  liest  on  the  frosty  ground 
Strewed  with  thy  fortune's  wreck,  alas,  thine  all  — 

There,  on  a  winter  dawn,  thy  corse  I  found, 
Lone  Spirit  of  the  Fall. 

Danske  Dandridge. 

DIES  ULTIMA 

WHITE  in  her  woven  shroud, 

Silent  she  lies, 
Deaf  to  the  trumpets  loud 

Blown  through  the  skies; 
Never  a  sound  can  mar 

Her  slumber  long: 
She  is  a  faded  star,  — 

A  finished  song! 


ON   A   GREEK   VASE  245 

Over  her  hangs  the  sun, 

A  golden  glow; 
Round  her  the  planets  run, 

She  does  not  know; 
For  neither  gloom  nor  gleam 

Can  reach  her  sight: 
She  is  a  broken  dream,  — 

A  dead  delight! 

No  voice  can  waken  her 

Again  to  sing; 
She  never  more  will  stir 

To  feel  the  spring; 
Through  the  dim  ether  hurled 

Till  Time  shall  tire, 
She  is  a  wasted  world,  — 

A  frozen  fire! 

Frank  Dempster  Sherman. 

ON  A  GREEK  VASE 

DIVINELY  shapen  cup,  thy  lip 
Unto  me  seemeth  thus  to  speak: 

"Behold  in  me  the  workmanship, 
The  grace  and  cunning  of  a  Greek! 

"Long  ages  since  he  mixed  the  clay, 

Whose  sense  of  symmetry  was  such. 
The  labor  of  a  single  day 

Immortal  grew  beneath  his  touch. 

"For  dreaming  while  his  fingers  went 
Around  this  slender  neck  of  mine, 


246  CLINTON   SCOLLARD 

The  form  of  her  he  loved  was  blent 
With  every  matchless  curve  and  line. 

"Her  loveliness  to  me  he  gave 

Who  gave  unto  herself  his  heart, 

That  love  and  beauty  from  the  grave 

Might  rise  and  live  again  in  art." 

And  hearing  from  thy  lips  this  tale 
Of  love  and  skill,  of  art  and  grace, 

Thou  seem  'st  to  me  no  more  the  frail 
Memento  of  an  older  race: 

But  in  thy  form  divinely  wrought 
And  figured  o'er  with  fret  and  scroll, 

I  dream,  by  happy  chance  was  caught, 
And  dwelleth  now,  that  maiden's  soul. 

Frank  Dempster  Sherman. 

IF  ONLY  THE  DREAMS  ABIDE 

IF  the  things  of  earth  must  pass 
Like  the  dews  upon  the  grass, 
Like  the  mists  that  break  and  run 
At  the  forward  sweep  of  the  sun, 
I  shall  be  satisfied 
If  only  the  dreams  abide. 

Nay,  I  would  not  be  shorn 

Of  gold  from  the  mines  of  morn! 

I  would  not  be  bereft 

Of  the  last  blue  flower  in  the  cleft,  — 

Of  the  haze  that  haunts  the  hills, 

Or  the  moon  that  the  midnight  fills! 


KHAMSIN  247 


Still  would  I  know  the  grace 
Upon  love's  uplifted  face, 
And  the  slow,  sweet  joy-dawn  there 
Under  the  dusk  of  her  hair. 

I  pray  thee,  spare  me,  Fate, 
The  woeful,  wearying  weight 
Of  a  heart  that  feels  no  pain 
At  the  sob  of  the  Autumn  rain, 
And  takes  no  breath  of  glee 
From  the  organ-surge  of  the  sea, — 
Of  a  mind  where  memory  broods 
Over  songless  solitudes! 
I  shall  be  satisfied 
If  only  the  dreams  abide. 

Clinton  ScoUard. 

KHAMSIN 

OH,  the  wind  from  the  desert  blew  in!  — 
Khamsin, 

The  wind  from  the  desert,  blew  in! 
It  blew  from  the  heart  of  the  fiery  south, 
From  the  fervid  sand  and  the  hills  of  drouth, 
And  it  kissed  the  land  with  its  scorching  mouth; 
The  wind  from  the  desert  blew  in ! 

It  blasted  the  buds  on  the  almond  bough, 

And  shriveled  the  fruit  on  the  orange  tree; 

The  wizened  dervish  breathed  no  vow 

So  weary  and  parched  was  he. 

The  lean  muezzin  could  not  cry; 

The  dogs  ran  mad,  and  bayed  the  sky; 


248  CLINTON   SCOLLARD 

The  hot  sun  shone  like  a  copper  disk, 

And  prone  in  the  shade  of  an  obelisk 

The  water-carrier  sank  with  a  sigh,  -^ 

For  limp  and  dry  was  his  water-skin; 

And  the  wind  from  the  desert  blew  in. 

The  camel  crouched  by  the  crumbling  wall, 
And,  oh,  the  pitiful  moan  it  made ! 
The  minarets,  taper  and  slim  and  tall, 
Reeled  and  swam  in  the  brazen  light; 
And  prayers  went  up  by  day  and  night, 
But  thin  and  drawn  were  the  lips  that  prayed. 
The  river  writhed  in  its  slimy  bed, 
Shrunk  to  a  tortuous,  turbid  thread; 
The  burnt  earth  cracked  like  a  cloven  rind; 
And  still  the  wind,  the  ruthless  wind, 
Khamsin, 
The  wind  from  the  desert,  blew  in ! 

Into  the  cool  of  the  mosque  it  crept, 

Where  the  poor  sought  rest  at  the  prophet's  shrine; 

Its  breath  was  fire  to  the  jasmine  vine; 

It  fevered  the  brow  of  the  maid  who  slept, 

And  men  grew  haggard  with  revel  of  wine. 

The  tiny  fledglings  died  in  the  nest; 
The  sick  babe  gasped  at  the  mother's  breast. 
Then  a  rumor  rose  and  swelled  and  spread 
From  a  tremulous  whisper  faint  and  vague, 
Till  it  burst  in  a  terrible  cry  of  dread. 

The  plague  I  ike  plague  I  the  plague  I 

Oh,  the  wind,  Khamsin, 
The  scourge  from  the  desert,  blew  in ! 

Clinton  Scdlard. 


IN   THE   GRASS  249 

DO  YOU  FEAR  THE  WIND? 

Do  you  fear  the  force  of  the  wind, 

The  slash  of  the  rain? 

Go  face  them  and  fight  them, 

Be  savage  again. 

Go  hungry  and  cold  like  the  wolf, 

Go  wade  like  the  crane: 
The  palms  of  your  hands  will  thicken, 
The  skin  of  your  cheek  will  tan, 
You  '11  grow  ragged  and  weary  and  swarthy, 

But  you'll  walk  like  a  man! 

Hamlin  Garland. 

IN  THE  GRASS 

O  TO  lie  in  long  grasses ! 

O  to  dream  of  the  plain! 

Where  the  west  wind  sings  as  it  passes 

A  weird  and  unceasing  refrain; 

Where  the  rank  grass  wallows  and  tosses, 

And  the  plains'  ring  dazzles  the  eye; 

Where  hardly  a  silver  cloud  bosses 

The  flashing  steel  arch  of  the  sky. 

To  watch  the  gay  gulls  as  they  flutter 
Like  snowflakes  and  fall  down  the  sky, 
To  swoop  in  the  deeps  of  the  hollows, 
Where  the  crow's-foot  tosses  awry, 
And  gnats  in  the  lee  of  the  thickets 
Are  swirling  like  waltzers  in  glee 
To  the  harsh,  shrill  creak  of  the  crickets, 
And  the  song  of  the  lark  and  the  bee. 


250  RICHARD    BURTON 

O  far-off  plains  of  my  west  land! 
O  lands  of  winds  and  the  free, 
Swift  deer  — my  mist-clad  plain ! 
From  my  bed  in  the  heart  of  the  forest, 
From  the  clasp  and  the  girdle  of  pain, 
Your  light  through  my  darkness  passes; 
To  your  meadows  in  dreaming  I  fly 
To  plunge  in  the  deeps  of  your  grasses, 
To  bask  in  the  light  of  your  sky ! 

Hamlin  Garland. 

THE  CITY 

THEY  do  neither  plight  nor  wed 

In  the  city  of  the  dead, 

In  the  city  where  they  sleep  away  the  hours; 

But  they  lie,  while  o'er  them  range 

Winter-blight  and  summer  change, 

And  a  hundred  happy  whisperings  of  flowers. 

No,  they  neither  wed  nor  plight, 

And  the  day  is  like  the  night, 

Fer  their  vision  is  of  other  kind  than  ours. 

They  do  neither  sing  nor  sigh, 
In  that  burgh  of  by  and  by 

Where  the  streets  have  grasses  growing  cool  and  long; 
But  they  rest  within  their  bed, 
Leaving  all  their  thoughts  unsaid, 
Deeming  silence  better  far  than  sob  or  song. 
No,  they  neither  sigh  nor  sing, 
Though  the  robin  be  a-wing, 

Though   the  leaves   of  autumn  march  a  million 
strong. 


THUS   FAR  251 


There  is  only  rest  and  peace 

In  the  City  of  Surcease 

From  the  failings  and  the  wailings  'neath  the  sun, 

And  the  wings  of  the  swift  years 

Beat  but  gently  o'er  the  biers, 

Making  music  to  the  sleepers  every  one. 

There  is  only  peace  and  rest; 

But  to  them  it  seemeth  best, 

For  they  lie  at  ease  and  know  that  life  is  done. 

Richard  Burton. 


THE  HUMAN  TOUCH 

HIGH  thoughts  and  noble  in  all  lands 
Help  me;  my  soul  is  fed  by  such. 

But  ah,  the  touch  of  lips  and  hands,  — 
The  human  touch! 

Warm,  vital,  close,  life's  symbols  dear,  — 

These  need  I  most,  and  now,  and  here. 

Richard  Burton. 


THUS  FAR 

BECAUSE  my  life  has  lain  so  close  to  thine, 
Because  our  hearts  have  kept  a  common  beat, 
Because  thine  eyes  turned  towards  me  frank  and 
sweet 

Reveal  sometimes  thine  untold  thoughts  to  mine, 

Think  not  that  I,  by  curious  design, 
Or  over-step  of  too  impetuous  feet, 
Could  desecrate  thy  soul's  supreme  retreat, 

Could  disregard  its  quivering  barrier-line. 


252  FRANK   L.   STANTON 

Only  a  simple  Levite,  I,  who  stand 

On  the  world's  side  of  the  most  holy  place, 

Till,  as  the  new  day  glorifies  the  east, 
One  come  to  lift  the  veil  with  reverent  hand 
And  enter  with  thy  soul's  soul  face  to  face,  — 
He  whom  thy  God  shall  call  to  be  high  priest. 

Sophie  Jewett. 

IN  THE  DARK 

LORD,  since  the  strongest  human  hands  I  know 
Reach  through  my  darkness,  will  not  let  me  go, 
Hold  me  as  if  most  dear  when  fallen  most  low; 

Since,  even  now,  when  my  spent  courage  lies 
Stricken  beneath  disastrous,  quivering  skies, 
I  learn  the  tenderness  of  human  eyes; 

Surely,  though  night  unthinkable  impend, 
Where  human  hands  nor  human  eyes  befriend, 
Thou  wilt  avail  me  in  the  lonely  end. 

Sophie  Jewett. 

A  LITTLE  WAY 

A  LITTLE  way  to  walk  with  you,  my  own  — 

Only  a  little  way, 
Then  one  of  us  must  weep  and  walk  alone 

Until  God's  day. 

A  little  way!  It  is  so  sweet  to  live 

Together,  that  I  know 
Life  would  not  have  one  withered  rose  to  give 

If  one  of  us  should  go. 


BEGGARS  253 


And  if  these  lips  should  ever  learn  to  smile, 
With  thy  heart  far  from  mine, 

'T  would  be  for  joy  that  in  a  little  while 
They  would  be  kissed  by  thine ! 

Frank  L.  Stantont 

FATE 

Two  shall  be  born  the  whole  wide  world  apart; 

And  speak  in  different  tongues,  and  have  no  thought 

Each  of  the  other's  being,  and  no  heed; 

And  these  o'er  unknown  seas  to  unknown  lands 

Shall  cross,  escaping  wreck,  defying  death, 

And  all  unconsciously  shape  every  act 

And  bend  each  wandering  step  to  this  one  end,  — 

That,  one  day,  out  of  darkness,  they  shall  meet 

And  read  life's  meaning  in  each  other's  eyes. 

And  two  shall  walk  some  narrow  way  of  life 
So  nearly  side  by  side,  that  should  one  turn 
Ever  so  little  space  to  left  or  right 
They  needs  must  stand  acknowledged  face  to  face. 
And  yet,  with  wistful  eyes  that  never  meet, 
With  groping  hands  that  never  clasp,  and  lips 
Calling  in  vain  to  ears  that  never  hear, 
They  seek  each  other  all  their  weary  days 
And  die  unsatisfied  —  and  this  is  Fate! 

Susan  Marr  Spotting 

BEGGARS 

CHILD  with  the  hungry  eyes, 
The  pallid  mouth  and  brow, 

And  the  lifted,  asking  hands, 
I  am  more  starved  than  thou. 


254  ANNE   REEVE   ALDRICH 

I  beg  not  on  the  street; 

But  where  the  sinner  stands, 
In  secret  place,  I  beg 

Of  God,  with  outstretched  hands. 

As  thou  hast  asked  of  me, 
Raising  thy  downcast  head, 

So  have  I  asked  of  Him, 
So,  trembling,  have  I  plead. 

Take  this  and  go  thy  way; 

Thy  hunger  shall  soon  cease. 
Thou  prayest  but  for  bread, 

And  I,  alas!  for  peace. 

Ella  Higginson, 

A  LITTLE  PARABLE 

I  MADE  the  cross  myself  whose  weight 

Was  later  laid  on  me. 
This  thought  is  torture  as  I  toil 

Up  life's  steep  Calvary. 

To  think  mine  own  hands  drove  the  nails! 

I  sang  a  merry  song, 
And  chose  the  heaviest  wood  I  had 

To  build  it  firm  and  strong. 

If  I  had  guessed  —  if  I  had  dreamed 
Its  weight  was  meant  for  me, 

I  should  have  made  a  lighter  cross 
To  bear  up  Calvary! 

Anne  Reeve  Aldrich, 


CARE  255 

LOVE'S  CHANGE 

I  WENT  to  dig  a  grave  for  Love, 
But  the  earth  was  so  stiff  and  cold 

That,  though  I  strove  through  the  bitter  night, 
I  could  not  break  the  mould. 

And  I  said:  "Must  he  lie  in  my  house  in  state, 

And  stay  in  his  wonted  place? 
Must  I  have  him  with  me  another  day, 

With  that  awful  change  in  his  face?" 

Anne  Reeve  Aldrich. 


CARE 

ALL  in  the  leafy  darkness,  when  sleep  had  passed  me 
by, 

I  knew  the  surging  of  the  sea  — 

Though  never  wave  were  nigh. 
All  in  the  leafy  darkness,  unbroken  by  a  star, 

There  came  the  clamorous  call  of  day, 

While  yet  the  day  was  far. 
All  in  the  leafy  darkness,  woven  with  hushes  deep, 

I  heard  the  vulture  wings  of  Fear 

Above  me  tireless  sweep; 

The  sea  of  Doubt,  the  dread  of  day,  upon  me  surged 
and  swept 

All  in  the  leafy  darkness, 
And  while  the  whole  world  slept. 

Virginia  WJodward  Cloud, 


g56         LOUISE  IMOGEN   GUINEY 

BEATI  MORTUI 

BLESSED  the  Dead  in  Spirit,  our  brave  dead 

Not  passed,  but  perfected: 

Who  tower  up  to  mystical  full  bloom 

From  self,  as  from  a  known  alchemic  tomb; 

Who  out  of  wrong 

Run  forth  with  laughter  and  a  broken  thong; 

Who  win  from  pain  their  strange  and  flawless  grant 

Of  peace  anticipant; 

Who  cerements  lately  wore  of  sin,  but  now, 

Unbound  from  foot  to  brow, 

Gleam  in  and  out  of  cities,  beautiful 

As  sun-born  colours  of  a  forest  pool 

Where  Autumn  sees 

The  splash  of  walnuts  from  her  thinning  trees. 

Though  wondered-at  of  some,  yea,  feared  almost 

As  any  chantry  ghost, 

How  sight  of  these,  in  hermitage  or  mart, 

Makes  glad  a  wistful  heart! 

For  life's  apologetics  read  most  true 

In  spirits  risen  anew, 

Like  larks  in  air 

To  whom  flat  earth  is  all  a  heavenward  stair, 

And  who  from  yonder  parapet 

Scorn  every  mortal  fret, 

And  rain  their  sweet  bewildering  staves 

Upon  our  furrow  of  fresh-delved  graves. 

If  thus  to  have  trod  and  left  the  wormy  way 
Makes  men  so  wondrous  gay, 
So  stripped  and  free  and  potently  alive, 
Who  would  not  his  infirmity  survive, 


SANCTUARY 257 

And  bathe  in  victory,  and  come  to  be 

As  blithe  as  ye, 

Saints  of  the  ended  wars?  Ah,  greeting  give; 

Turn  not  away,  too  fugitive: 

But  hastening  towards  us,  hallow  the  foul  street^ 

And  sit  with  us  at  meat, 

And  of  your  courtesy,  on  us  unwise 

Fix  oft  those  purer  eyes, 

Till  in  ourselves  who  love  them  dwell 

The  same  sure  light  ineffable: 

Till  they  who  walk  with  us  in  after  years 

Forgetting  time  and  tears 

(As  we  with  you),  shall  sing  all  day  instead: 

"How  blessed  are  the  Dead!" 

Louise  Imogen  Guiney. 

SANCTUARY 

HIGH  above  hate  I  dwell: 
O  storms!  farewell. 

Though  at  my  sill  your  daggered  thunders  play 
Lawless  and  loud  to-morrow  as  to-day, 
To  me  they  sound  more  small 
Than  a  young  fay's  footfall : 
Soft  and  far-sunken,  forty  fathoms  low 
In  Long  Ago, 

And  winnowed  into  silence  on  that  wind 
Which  takes  wars,  like  a  dust,  and  leaves  but  love 
behind. 

Hither  Felicity 

Doth  climb  to  me, 

And  bank  me  in  with  turf  and  marjoram 

Such  as  bees  lip,  or  the  new-weaned  lamb; 


258  BLISS   CARMAN 

With  golden  barberry-wreath, 
And  bluets  thick  beneath; 
One  grosbeak,  too,  mid  apple-buds  a  guest 
With  bud-red  breast, 

Is  singing,  singing!  All  the  hells  that  rage 
Float  less  than  April  fog  below  our  hermitage. 
Louise  Imogen  Guiney. 

THE  JUGGLER 

LOOK  how  he  throws  them  up  and  up, 
The  beautiful  golden  balls ! 
They  hang  aloft  in  the  purple  air, 
And  there  never  is  one  that  falls. 

He  sends  them  hot  from  his  steady  hand, 
He  teaches  them  all  their  curves; 
And  whether  the  reach  be  little  or  long, 
There  never  is  one  that  swerves. 

Some,  like  the  tiny  red  one  there, 

He  never  lets  go  far; 

And  some  he  has  sent  to  the  roof  of  the  tent, 

To  swim  without  a  jar. 

So  white  and  still  they  seem  to  hang, 
You  wonder  if  he  forgot 
To  reckon  the  time  of  their  return 
And  measure  their  golden  lot. 

Can  it  be  that,  hurried  or  tired  out, 
The  hand  of  the  juggler  shook? 
O  never  you  fear,  his  eye  is  clear, 
He  knows  them  all  like  a  book. 


THE   JUGGLER 


And  they  will  home  to  his  hand  at  last, 
For  he  pulls  them  by  a  cord 
Finer  than  silk  and  strong  as  fate, 
That  is  just  the  bid  of  his  word. 

Was  there  ever  such  a  sight  in  the  world? 
Like  a  wonderful  winding  skein,  — 
The  way  he  tangles  them  up  together 
And  ravels  them  out  again! 

He  has  so  many  moving  now, 
You  can  hardly  believe  your  eyes; 
And  yet  they  say  he  can  handle  twice 
The  number  when  he  tries. 

You  take  your  choice  and  give  me  mine, 
I  know  the  one  for  me, 
It's  that  great  bluish  one  low  down 
Like  a  ship's  light  out  at  sea. 

It  has  not  moved  for  a  minute  or  more. 
The  marvel  that  it  can  keep 
As  if  it  had  been  set  there  to  spin 
For  a  thousand  years  asleep  ! 

If  I  could  have  him  at  the  inn 

Ail  by  myself  some  night,  — 

Inquire  his  country,  and  where  in  the  world 

He  came  by  that  cunning  sleight! 

Where  do  you  guess  he  learned  the  trick 
To  hold  us  gaping  here, 

Till  our  minds  in  the  spell  of  his  maze  almost 
Have  forgotten  the  time  of  year? 


260  BLISS   CARMAN 

One  never  could  have  the  least  idea. 
Yet  why  be  disposed  to  twit 
A  fellow  who  does  such  wonderful  things 
With  the  merest  lack  of  wit? 

Likely  enough,  when  the  show  is  done 
And  the  balls  all  back  in  his  hand, 
He'll  tell  us  why  he  is  smiling  so, 
And  we  shall  understand. 

Bliss  Carman, 

THE  GRAVEDIGGER 

OH,  the  shambling  sea  is  a  sexton  old, 
And  well  his  work  is  done. 
With  an  equal  grave  for  lord  and  knave, 
He  buries  them  every  one. 

Then  hoy  and  rip,  with  a  rolling  hip, 

He  makes  for  the  nearest  shore; 

And  God,  who  sent  him  a  thousand  ship, 

Will  send  him  a  thousand  more; 

But  some  he  '11  save  for  a  bleaching  grave, 

And  shoulder  them  in  to  shore,  — 

Shoulder  them  in,  shoulder  them  in, 

Shoulder  them  in  to  shore. 

Oh,  the  ships  of  Greece  and  the  ships  of  Tyre 
Went  out,  and  where  are  they? 
In  the  port  they  made,  they  are  delayed 
With  the  ships  of  yesterday. 

He  followed  the  ships  of  England  far, 
As  the  ships  of  long  ago; 


THE   GRAVEDIGGER  261 

And  the  ships  of  France  they  led  him  a  dance, 
But  he  laid  them  all  arow. 

Oh,  a  loafing,  idle  lubber  to  him 
Is  the  sexton  of  the  town; 
For  sure  and  swift,  with  a  guiding  lift, 
He  shovels  the  dead  men  down. 

But  though  he  delves  so  fierce  and  grim, 
His  honest  graves  are  wide, 
As  well  they  know  who  sleep  below 
The  dredge  of  the  deepest  tide. 

Oh,  he  works  with  a  rollicking  stave  at  lip, 
And  loud  is  the  chorus  skirled; 
With  the  burly  rote  of  his  rumbling  throat 
He  batters  it  down  the  world. 

He  learned  it  once  in  his  father's  house, 
Where  the  ballads  of  eld  were  sung; 
And  merry  enough  is  the  burden  rough, 
But  no  man  knows  the  tongue. 

Oh,  fair,  they  say,  was  his  bride  to  see, 
And  wilful  she  must  have  been, 
That  she  could  bide  at  his  gruesome  side 
When  the  first  red  dawn  came  in. 

And  sweet,  they  say,  is  her  kiss  to  those 
She  greets  to  his  border  home; 
And  softer  than  sleep  her  hand's  first  sweep 
That  beckons  and  they  come. 


262  HELEN   GRAY    CONE 

Oh,  crooked  is  he,  but  strong  enough 
To  handle  the  tallest  mast; 
From  the  royal  barque  to  the  slaver  dark, 
He  buries  them  all  at  last. 

Then  hoy  and  rip,  with  a  rolling  hip, 

He  makes  for  the  nearest  shore; 

And  God,  who  sent  him  a  thousand  ship, 

Will  send  him  a  thousand  more; 

But  some  he  '11  save  for  a  bleaching  grave, 

And  shoulder  them  in  to  shore,  — 

Shoulder  them  in,  shoulder  them  in, 

Shoulder  them  in  to  shore. 

Bliss  Carman. 

A  CHANT  OF  LOVE  FOR  ENGLAND 

A  SONG  of  hate  is  a  song  of  Hell; 
Some  there  be  that  sing  it  well. 
Let  them  sing  it  loud  and  long, 
We  lift  our  hearts  in  a  loftier  song: 
We  lift  our  hearts  to  Heaven  above, 
Singing  the  glory  of  her  we  love,  —     < 
England  ! 

Glory  of  thought  and  glory  of  deed, 
Glory  of  Hampton  and  Runnymede; 
Glory  of  ships  that  sought  far  goals, 
Glory  of  swords  and  glory  of  souls! 
Glory  of  songs  mounting  as  birds, 
Glory  immortal  of  magical  words; 
Glory  of  Milton,  glory  of  Nelson, 
Tragical  glory  of  Gordon  and  Scott; 


THE   KAVANAGH 


Glory  of  Shelley,  glory  of  Sidney, 
Glory  transcendent  that  perishes  not,  — 
Hers  is  the  story,  hers  be  the  glory, 
England  ! 

Shatter  her  beauteous  breast  ye  may; 
The  spirit  of  England  none  can  slay! 
Dash  the  bomb  on  the  dome  of  Paul's,  — 
Deem  ye  the  fame  of  the  Admiral  falls? 
Pry  the  stone  from  the  chancel  floor,  — 
Dream  ye  that  Shakespeare  shall  live  no  more? 
Where  is  the  giant  shot  that  kills 
Wordsworth  walking  the  old  green  hills? 
Trample  the  red  rose  on  the  ground,  — 
Keats  is  Beauty  while  earth  spins  round! 

Bind  her,  grind  her,  burn  her  with  fire, 
Cast  her  ashes  into  the  sea,  — 
She  shall  escape,  she  shall  aspire, 
She  shall  arise  to  make  men  free: 
She  shall  arise  in  a  sacred  scorn, 
Lighting  the  lives  that  are  yet  unborn; 
Spirit  supernal,  Splendor  eternal, 
England  I 

Helen  Gray  Cone. 

THE  KAVANAGH 

A  STONE  jug  and  a  pewter  mug, 
And  a  table  set  for  three! 
A  jug  and  a  mug  at  every  place, 
And  a  biscuit  or  two  with  Brie! 


264  RICHARD   HOVEY 

Three  stone  jugs  of  Cruiskeen  Lawn, 
And  a  cheese  like  crusted  foam! 
The  Kavanagh  receives  to-night! 
McMurrough  is  at  home! 

We  three  and  the  barley-bree! 

And  a  health  to  the  one  away, 

Who  drifts  down  careless  Italy, 

God's  wanderer  and  estray! 

For  friends  are  more  than  Arno's  store 

Of  garnered  charm,  and  he 

Were  blither  with  us  here  the  night 

Than  Titian  bids  him  be. 


Throw  ope  the  window  to  the  stars, 
And  let  the  warm  night  in! 
Who  knows  what  revelry  in  Mars 
May  rhyme  with  rouse  akin? 
Fill  up  and  drain  the  loving  cup 
And  leave  no  drop  to  waste! 
The  moon  looks  in  to  see  what's  up  — 
Begad,  she'd  like  a  taste! 

What  odds  if  Leinster's  kingly  roll 

Be  now  an  idle  thing? 

The  world  is  his  who  takes  his  toll, 

A  vagrant  or  a  king. 

What  though  the  crown  be  melted  down, 

And  the  heir  a  gypsy  roam? 

The  Kavanagh  receives  to-night! 

McMurrough  is  at  home! 


AT   THE   CROSSROADS  £65 

We  three  and  the  barley-bree! 

And  the  moonlight  on  the  floor! 

Who  were  a  man  to  do  with  less? 

What  emperor  has  more? 

Three  stone  jugs  of  Cruiskeen  Lawn, 

And  three  stout  hearts  to  drain 

A  slanter  to  the  truth  in  the  heart  of  youth 

And  the  joy  of  the  love  of  men. 

Richard  Hovey. 

AT  THE  CROSSROADS 

You  to  the  left  and  I  to  the  right, 

For  the  ways  of  men  must  sever  — 

And  it  well  may  be  for  a  day  and  a  night, 

And  it  well  may  be  forever. 

But  whether  we  meet  or  whether  we  part 

(For  our  ways  are  past  our  knowing), 

A  pledge  from  the  heart  to  its  fellow  heart 

On  the  ways  we  all  are  going! 

Here's  luck! 

For  we  know  not  where  we  are  going. 

We  have  striven  fair  in  love  and  war, 

But  the  wheel  was  always  weighted! 

We  have  lost  the  prize  that  we  struggled  for, 

We  have  won  the  prize  that  was  fated. 

We  have  met  our  loss  with  a  smile  and  a  song, 

And  our  gains  with  a  wink  and  a  whistle,  — 

For,  whether  we're  right  or  whether  we're  wrong, 

There's  a  rose  for  every  thistle. 

Here's  luck! 

And  a  drop  to  wet  your  whistle! 


266  RICHARD   HOVEY 

Whether  we  win  or  whether  we  lose 

With  the  hands  that  life  is  dealing, 

It  is  not  we  nor  the  ways  we  choose 

But  the  fall  of  the  cards  that's  sealing. 

There's  a  fate  in  love  and  a  fate  in  fight, 

And  the  best  of  us  all  go  under  — 

And  whether  we're  wrong  or  whether  we're  right, 

We  win,  sometimes,  to  our  wonder. 

Here's  luck! 

That  we  may  not  yet  go  under ! 

With  a  steady  swing  and  an  open  brow 

We  have  tramped  the  ways  together, 

But  we're  clasping  hands  at  the  crossroads  now 

In  the  Fiend's  own  night  for  weather; 

And  whether  we  bleed  or  whether  we  smile 

In  the  leagues  that  lie  before  us, 

The  ways  of  life  are  many  a  mile 

And  the  dark  of  Fate  is  o'er  us. 

Here's  luck! 

And  a  cheer  for  the  dark  before  us! 

You  to  the  left  and  I  to  the  right, 

For  the  ways  of  men  must  sever, 

And  it  well  may  be  for  a  day  and  a  night, 

And  it  well  may  be  forever! 

But  whether  we  live  or  whether  we  die 

(For  the  end  is  past  our  knowing), 

Here's  two  frank  hearts  and  the  open  sky, 

Be  a  fair  or  an  ill  wind  blowing ! 

Here's  luck! 

In  the  teeth  of  all  winds  blowing. 

Richard  Hovey. 


KU   KLUX  267 


ON  THE  DEATH  OF  A 
METAPHYSICIAN 

UNHAPPY  dreamer,  who  outwinged  in  flight 
The  pleasant  region  of  the  things  I  love, 
And  soared  beyond  the  sunshine,  and  above 
The  golden  cornfields  and  the  dear  and  bright 
Warmth    of    the   hearth,  —  blasphemer   of   de- 
light, 

Was  your  proud  bosom  not  at  peace  with  Jove, 
That  you  sought,  thankless  for  his  guarded  grove, 
The  empty  horror  of  abysmal  night? 
Ah,  the  thin  air  is  cold  above  the  moon! 
I  stood  and  saw  you  fall,  befooled  in  death, 
As,  in  your  numbed  spirit's  fatal  swoon, 
You  cried  you  were  a  god,  or  were  to  be; 
I  heard  with  feeble  moan  your  boastful  breath 
Bubble  from  depths  of  the  Icarian  sea. 

George  Santayana. 

KU  KLUX 

WE  have  sent  him  seeds  of  the  melon's  core, 
And  nailed  a  warning  upon  his  door : 
By  the  Ku  Klux  laws  we  can  do  no  more. 

Down  in  the  hollow,  mid  crib  and  stack, 

The  roof  of  his  low-porched  house  looms  black; 

Not  a  line  of  light  at  the  door-sill's  crack. 

Yet  arm  and  mount!  and  mask  and  ride! 

The  hounds  can  sense  though  the  fox  may  hide! 

And  for  a  word  too  much  men  oft  have  died. 


268  MADISON   CAWEIN 

The  clouds  blow  heavy  toward  the  moon. 
The  edge  of  the  storm  will  reach  it  soon. 
The  killdee  cries  and  the  lonesome  loon. 

The  clouds  shall  flush  with  a  wilder  glare 
Than  the  lightning  makes  with  its  angled  flare, 
When  the  Ku  Klux  verdict  is  given  there. 

In  the  pause  of  the  thunder  rolling  low, 
A  rifle's  answer  —  who  shall  know 
From  the  wind's  fierce  hurl  and  the  rain's  black 
blow? 

Only  the  signature,  written  grim 

At  the  end  of  the  message  brought  to  him  — 

A  hempen  rope  and  a  twisted  limb. 

So  arm  and  mount!  and  mask  and  ride! 

The  hounds  can  sense  though  the  fox  may  hide!  — 

For  a  word  too  much  oft  men  have  died. 

Madison  Cawein. 

THE  RAIN-CROW 

CAN  freckled  August,  —  drowsing  warm  and  blonde 
Beside  a  wheat-shock  in  the  white-topped  mead, 

In  her  hot  hair  the  oxeyed  daisies  wound,  — 
O  bird  of  rain,  lend  aught  but  sleepy  heed 
To  thee?  when  no  plumed  weed,  no  feather' d  seed 

Blows  by  her;  and  no  ripple  breaks  the  pond, 
That  gleams  like  flint  between  its  rim  of  grasses, 
Through  which  the  dragonfly  forever  passes 
Like  splintered  diamond. 


THE   RAIN-CROW  269 

Drouth  weights  the  trees,  and  from  the  farmhouse 

eaves 

The  locust,  pulse-beat  of  the  summer  day, 
Throbs;  and  the  lane,  that  shambles  under  leaves 
Limp  with  the  heat  —  a  league  of  rutty  way  — 
Is  lost  in  dust;  and  sultry  scents  of  hay 
Breathe   from    the   panting   meadows   heaped   with 

sheaves. 

Now,  now,  O  bird,  what  hint  is  there  of  rain, 
In  thirsty  heaven  or  on  burning  plain, 
That  thy  keen  eye  perceives? 

But  thou  art  right.   Thou  prophesiest  true. 
For  hardly  hast  thou  ceased  thy  forecasting, 

When,  up  the  western  fierceness  of  scorched  blue, 
Great  water-carrier  winds  their  buckets  bring 
Brimming  with  freshness.   How  their  dippers  ring 

And  flash  and  rumble!  lavishing  dark  dew 
On  corn  and  forestland,  that,  streaming  wet, 
Their  hilly  backs  against  the  downpour  set, 
Like  giants  vague  in  view. 

The  butterfly,  safe  under  leaf  and  flower, 

Has  found  a  roof,  knowing  how  true  thou  art; 
The  bumble-bee,  within  the  last  half-hour, 
Has  ceased  to  hug  the  honey  to  its  heart; 
WThile  in  the  barnyard,  under  shed  and  cart, 
Brood-hens  have  housed.  —  But  I,  who  scorned  thy 

power, 

Barometer  of  birds,  —  like  August  there,  — 

.Beneath  a  beech,  dripping  from  foot  to  hair, 

Like  some  drenched  truant,  cower. 

Madison  Cawein, 


270        CHARLES   BUXTON   GOING 

I  FEAR  NO  POWER  A  WOMAN 
WIELDS 

I  FEAR  no  power  a  woman  wields 
While  I  can  have  the  woods  and  fields, 
With  comradeship  alone  of  gun, 
Gray  marsh-wastes  and  the  burning  sun. 

For  aye  the  heart's  most  poignant  pain 
Will  wear  away  'neath  hail  and  rain, 
And  rush  of  winds  through  branches  bare 
With  something  still  to  do  and  dare,  — 

The  lonely  watch  beside  the  shore, 
The  wild-fowl's  cry,  the  sweep  of  oar, 
And  paths  of  virgin  sky  to  scan 
Untrod,  and  so  uncursed  by  man. 

Gramercy,  for  thy  haunting  face, 
Thy  charm  of  voice  and  lissome  grace, 
I  fear  no  power  a  woman  wields 
While  I  can  have  the  woods  and  fields. 

Ernest  McGaffey, 

TO   ARCADY 

ACROSS  the  hills  of  Arcady 

Into  the  Land  of  Song  — 
Ah,  dear,  if  you  will  go  with  me 

The  way  will  not  be  long. 

It  does  not  lie  through  solitudes 
Of  wind-blown  woods  or  sea; 


THE   EAST  WIND  271 

Dear,  no !  the  city's  weariest  moods 
May  scarce  veil  Arcady. 

'Tis  in  no  unfamiliar  land 

Lit  by  some  distant  star; 
See !  Arcady  is  where  you  stand, 

And  song  is  where  you  are. 

Then  go  but  hand  in  hand  with  me  — 

No  road  can  lead  us  wrong; 
Here  are  the  hills  of  Arcady  — 

This  is  the  Land  of  Song. 

Charles  Buxton  Going 

THE  EAST  WIND 

GRAY-COWLED  wind  of  the  east! 

Grimly  you  chant  your  psalter, 
The  sea  your  wild  high-priest 

And  the  seething  rocks  your  altar 
On  which,  in  fierce  confusion 

While  sad  stars  hide  their  eyes, 
You  fling  your  dread  profusion 

Of  human  sacrifice. 

And  then,  by  hill  and  prairie 

As  one  who  strives  for  rest, 
As  seeking  sanctuary, 

Unhailed,  unloved,  unblest, 
You  still  cry  on,  entraining 

Your  clouds  of  spectral  hosts  — 
Shivering  and  complaining, 

Eerie  wind  of  the  ghosts! 

Charles  Buxton  Going. 


272  HARRIET   MONROE 

LOVE  SONG 

I  LOVE  my  life,  but  not  too  well 
To  give  it  to  thee  like  a  flower, 

So  it  may  pleasure  thee  to  dwell 
Deep  in  its  perfume  but  an  hour., 

I  love  my  life,  but  not  too  well. 

I  love  my  life,  but  not  too  well 

To  sing  it  note  by  note  away, 
So  to  thy  soul  the  song  may  tell 

The  beauty  of  the  desolate  day. 
I  love  my  life,  but  not  too  well. 

I  love  my  life,  but  not  too  well 
To  cast  it  like  a  cloak  on  thine, 

Against  the  storms  that  sound  and  swell 
Between  thy  lonely  heart  and  mine. 

I  love  my  life,  but  not  too  well. 

Harriet  Monroe* 

A  FAREWELL 

GOOD-BYE!  —  no,  do  not  grieve  that  it  is  over, 

The  perfect  hour; 
That  the  winged  joy,  sweet  honey-loving  rover, 

Flits  from  the  flower. 

Grieve  not  —  it  is  the  law.  Love  will  be  flying  — 

Yes,  love  and  all. 
Glad  was  the  living  —  blessed  be  the  dying. 

Let  the  leaves  fall. 

Harriet  Monroe, 


THE   SHADOW-CHILD  273 

THE  SHADOW-CHILD 

Why  do  the  wheels  go  whirring  round,, 

Mother,  mother  ? 
Oh,  mother,  are  they  giants  bound, 

And  will  they  growl  forever  ? 
Yes,  fiery  giants  underground, 

Daughter,  little  daughter, 
Forever  turn  the  wheels  around, 

And  rumble-grumble  ever. 

Why  do  I  pick  the  threads  all  day, 

Mother,  mother  ? 
While  sunshine  children  are  at  play  ? 

And  must  I  work  forever? 
Yes,  shadow-child;  the  live-long  day, 

Daughter,  little  daughter, 
Your  hands  must  pick  the  threads  away, 

And  feel  the  sunshine  never. 

Why  do  the  birds  sing  in  the  sun, 

Mother,  mother? 
If  all  day  long  I  run  and  run, 

Run  with  the  wheels  forever  ? 
The  birds  may  sing  till  day  is  done, 

Daughter,  little  daughter, 
But  with  the  wheels  your  feet  must  run  — 

Run  with  the  wheels  forever. 

Why  do  I  feel  so  tired  each  night, 

Mother,  mother? 
The  wheels  are  always  buzzing  bright; 

Do  they  grow  sleepy  never  ? 


274  GERTRUDE   HALL 

Oh,  baby  thing,  so  soft  and  white, 

Daughter,  little  daughter, 
The  big  wheels  grind  us  in  their  might, 

And  they  will  grind  forever. 

And  is  the  white  thread  never  spun, 

Mother,  mother  ? 
And  is  the  white  cloth  never  done. 

For  you  and  me  done  never  ? 
Oh,  yes,  our  thread  will  all  be  spun, 

Daughter,  little  daughter, 
When  we  lie  down  out  in  the  sun, 

And  work  no  more  forever. 

And  when  will  come  that  happy  day, 

Mother,  mother  ? 
Oh,  shall  we  laugh  and  sing  and  play 

Out  in  the  sun  forever  ? 
Nay,  shadow-child,  we'll  rest  all  day, 

Daughter,  little  daughter, 
Where  green  grass  grows  and  roses  gay, 

There  in  the  sun  forever. 

Harriet  Monroe, 

ONE  DISTANT  APRIL 

AH,  worshipped  one,  ah,  faithful  Spring, 
Again  you  come,  again  you  bring 
That  flock  of  flowers  from  the  fold 
Where  warm  it  slept  while  we  were  cold. 

What  shall  we  say  to  one  so  dear 
Who  keeps  her  promise  every  year? 


FLOS  AEVORUM  275 

Ah,  hear  me  promise,  and  as  true 
As  you  to  us  am  I  to  you : 

Ne'er  shall  you  come  and  as  a  child 
Sit  in  the  market  piping  mild, 
With  dance  suggestion  in  your  glance, 
And  I  not  dance,  and  I  not  dance! 

But  you  the  same  will  always  be, 
While  ninety  springs  will  alter  me; 
Yet  truly  as  you  come  and  play, 
So  truly  will  I  dance,  I  say. 

There  is  a  strange  thing  to  be  seen 
One  distant  April  pink  and  green: 
Before  a  young  child  piping  sweet 
An  old  child  dancing  with  spent  feet. 

Gertrude  Hall 

FLOS  AEVORUM 

You  must  mean  more  than  just  this  hour, 

You  perfect  thing  so  subtly  fair, 
Simple  and  complex  as  a  flower, 

Wrought  with  such  planetary  care; 
How  patient  the  eternal  power 

That  wove  the  marvel  of  your  hair. 

How  long  the  sunlight  and  the  sea 
Wove  and  re-wove  this  rippling  gold 

To  rhythms  of  eternity; 

And  many  a  flashing  thing  grew  old, 

Waiting  this  miracle  to  be; 

And  painted  marvels  manifold. 


276         RICHARD   LE   GALLIENNE 

Still  with  his  work  unsatisfied, 

Eager  each  new  effect  to  try, 
The  solemn  artist  cast  aside 

Rainbow  and  shell  and  butterfly, 
As  some  stern  blacksmith  scatters  wide 

The  sparks  that  from  his  anvil  fly. 

How  many  shells,  whorl  within  whorl, 
Litter  the  marges  of  the  sphere 

With  rack  of  unregarded  pearl, 

To  shape  that  little  thing,  your  ear: 

Creation,  just  to  make  one  girl, 

Hath  travailed  with  exceeding  fear. 

The  moonlight  of  forgotten  seas 

Dwells  in  your  eyes,  and  on  your  tongue 

The  honey  of  a  million  bees, 
And  all  the  sorrows  of  all  song : 

You  are  the  ending  of  all  these, 

The  world  grew  old  to  make  you  young. 

All  time  hath  traveled  to  this  rose; 

To  the  strange  making  of  this  face 
Came  agonies  of  fires  and  snows; 

And  Death  and  April,  nights  and  days 
Unnumbered,  unimagined  throes, 

Find  in  this  flower  their  meeting  place. 

Strange  artist,  to  my  aching  thought 
Give  answer:  all  the  patient  power 

That  to  this  perfect  ending  wrought, 
Shall  it  mean  nothing  but  an  hour? 

Say  not  that  it  is  all  for  nought 
Time  brings  Eternity  a  flower. 

Richard  Le  Gallienne. 


INFINITY  277 


WHAT  OF  THE  DARKNESS? 

WHAT  of  the  Darkness?  Is  it  very  fair? 

Are  there  great  calms?  And  find  we  silence  there? 

Like  soft-shut  lilies,  all  your  faces  glow 

With  some  strange  peace  our  faces  never  know, 

W7ith  some  strange  faith  our  faces  never  dare,  — 

Dwells  it  in  Darkness?  Do  you  find  it  there? 

Is  it  a  Bosom  where  tired  heads  may  lie? 
Is  it  a  Mouth  to  kiss  our  weeping  dry? 
Is  it  a  Hand  to  still  the  pulse's  leap? 
Is  it  a  Voice  that  holds  the  runes  of  sleep? 
Day  shows  us  not  such  comfort  anywhere  — 
Dwells  it  in  Darkness?  Do  you  find  it  there? 

Out  of  the  Day's  deceiving  light  we  call  — 
Day  that  shows  man  so  great,  and  God  so  small, 
That  hides  the  stars,  and  magnifies  the  grass  — 
O  is  the  Darkness  too  a  lying  glass! 
Or  undistracted,  do  you  find  truth  there? 
What  of  the  Darkness?  Is  it  very  fair? 

Richard  Le  Gallienne, 

INFINITY 

I  DARE  not  think  that  thou  art  by,  to  stand 
And  face  omnipotence  so  near  at  hand ! 

When  I  consider  thee,  how  must  I  shrink: 
How  must  I  say,  I  do  not  understand, 
I  dare  not  think! 

I  cannot  stand  before  the  thought  of  thee, 
Infinite  Fullness  of  Eternity! 


278       WILLIAM   VAUGHN   MOODY 

So  close  that  all  the  outlines  of  the  land 
Are  lost,  —  in  the  inflowing  of  thy  sea 
I  cannot  stand. 

I  think  of  thee,  and  as  the  crystal  bowl 
Is  broken,  and  the  waters  of  the  soul 

Go  down  to  death  within  the  crystal  sea, 
I  faint  and  fail  when  (thou,  the  perfect  whole) 
I  think  of  thee. 

Philip  Henry  Savage. 


PANDORA  SONG 

I  STOOD  within  the  heart  of  God ; 
It  seemed  a  place  that  I  had  known: 
(I  was  blood-sister  to  the  clod, 
Blood-brother  to  the  stone.) 

I  found  my  love  and  labor  there, 
My  house,  my  raiment,  meat  and  wine, 
My  ancient  rage,  my  old  despair,  — 
Yea,  all  things  that  were  mine. 

I  saw  the  spring  and  summer  pass, 
The  trees  grow  bare,  and  winter  come; 
All  was  the  same  as  once  it  was 
Upon  my  hills  at  home. 

Then  suddenly  in  my  own  heart 
I  felt  God  walk  and  gaze  about; 
He  spoke;  his  words  seemed  held  apart 
With  gladness  and  with  doubt. 


"OF  WOUNDS  AND  SORE  DEFEAT"    279 

"Here  is  my  meat  and  wine,"  He  said, 
"My  love,  my  toil,  my  ancient  care; 
Here  is  my  cloak,  my  book,  my  bed, 
And  here  my  old  despair. 

"  Here  are  my  seasons :  winter,  spring, 
Summer  the  same,  and  autumn  spills 
The  fruits  I  look  for;  everything 
As  on  my  heavenly  hills." 

William  Vaughn  Moody. 

"OF  WOUNDS  AND  SORE  DEFEAT" 

OF  wounds  and  sore  defeat 

I  made  my  battle  stay; 

Winged  sandals  for  my  feet 

I  wove  of  my  delay; 

Of  weariness  and  fear, 

I  made  my  shouting  spear; 

Of  loss,  and  doubt,  and  dread, 

And  swift  oncoming  doom 

I  made  a  helmet  for  my  head 

And  a  floating  plume. 

From  the  shutting  mist  of  death, 

From  the  failure  of  the  breath, 

I  made  a  battle-horn  to  blow 

Across  the  vales  of  overthrow. 

O  hearken,  love,  the  battle-horn! 

The  triumph  clear,  the  silver  scorn! 

O  hearken  where  the  echoes  bring, 

Down  the  gray  disastrous  morn, 

Laughter  and  rallying ! 

William  Vaughn  Moody. 


280       WILLIAM   VAUGHN   MOODY 

ON  A  SOLDIER  FALLEN  IN  THE 
PHILIPPINES 

STREETS  of  the  roaring  town, 

Hush  for  him,  hush,  be  still ! 

He  comes,  who  was  stricken  down 

Doing  the  word  of  our  will. 

Hush!  Let  him  have  his  state, 

Give  him  his  soldier's  crown. 

The  grists  of  trade  can  wait 

Their  grinding  at  the  mill, 
But  he  cannot  wait  for  his  honor,  now  the  trumpet 

has  been  blown; 

Wreathe  pride  now  for  his  granite  brow,  lay  love  on 
his  breast  of  stone. 


.      Toll!  Let  the  great  bells  toll 
Till  the  clashing  air  is  dim. 
Did  we  wrong  this  parted  soul? 
We  will  make  it  up  to  him. 
Toll !  Let  him  never  guess 
What  work  we  set  him  to. 
Laurel,  laurel,  yes; 
He  did  what  we  bade  him  do. 
Praise,  and  never  a  whispered  hint  but  the  fight  he 

fought  was  good; 

Never  a  word  that  the  blood  on  his  sword  was  his 
country's  own  heart 's-blood. 


A  flag  for  the  soldier's  bier 
Who  dies  that  his  land  may  live; 


WHEN  THE  GRAY  SHIPS  COME  IN    281 

O,  banners,  banners  here, 
That  he  doubt  not  nor  misgive! 
That  he  heed  not  from  the  tomb 
The  evil  days  draw  near 
When  the  nation,  robed  in  gloom, 
With  its  faithless  past  shall  strive. 
Let  him  never  dream  that  his  bullet's  scream  went 

wide  of  its  island  mark, 

Home  to  the  heart  of  his  darling  land  where  she 
stumbled  and  sinned  in  the  dark. 

William  Vaughn  Moody. 


WHEN  THE  GREAT  GRAY  SHIPS 
COME  IN 

(New  York  Harbor,  August  20,  1898) 

To  eastward  ringing,  to  westward  winging,  o'er  map- 
less  miles  of  sea, 

On  winds  and  tides  the  gospel  rides  that  the  further- 
most isles  are  free, 

And  the  furthermost  isles  make  answer,  harbor,  and 
height,  and  hill, 

Breaker  and  beach  cry  each  to  each,  "  'T  is  the  Mother 
who  calls!  Be  still!" 

Mother!  new-found,  beloved,  and  strong  to  hold  from 
harm, 

Stretching  to  these  across  the  seas  the  shield  of  her 
sovereign  arm, 

Who  summoned  the  guns  of  her  sailor  sons,  who  bade 
her  navies  roam, 

Who  calls  again  to  the  leagues  of  main,  and  who  calls 
them  this  time  home! 


282          GUY   WETMORE   CARRYL 

And  the  great  gray  ships  are  silent,  and  the  weary 

watchers  rest, 
The  black  cloud  dies  in  the  August  skies,  and  deep 

in  the  golden  west 

Invisible  hands  are  limning  a  glory  of  crimson  bars, 
And  far  above  is  the  wonder  of  a  myriad  wakened 

stars! 


Peace!  As  the  tidings  silence  the  strenuous  cannon- 
ade, 

Peace  at  last !  is  the  bugle  blast  the  length  of  the  long 
blockade, 

And  eyes  of  vigil  weary  are  lit  with  the  glad  release, 

From  ship  to  ship  and  from  lip  to  lip  it  is  "Peace! 
Thank  God  for  peace." 


Ah,  in  the  sweet  hereafter  Columbia  still  shall  show 
The  sons  of  these  who  swept  the  seas  how  she  bade 

them  rise  and  go,  — 

How,  when  the  stirring  summons  smote  on  her  chil- 
dren's ear, 
South  and  North  at  the  call  stood  forth,  and  the 

whole  land  answered,  "Here!" 
For  the  soul  of  the  soldier's  story  and  the  heart  of  the 

sailor's  song 
Are  all  of  those  who  meet  their  foes  as  right  should 

meet  with  wrong, 
Who  fight  their  guns  till  the  foeman  runs,  and  then 

on  the  decks  they  trod, 
Brave  faces  raise,  and  give  the  praise  to  the  grace  of 

their  country's  God ! 


LULLABY  288 


Yes,  it  is  good  to  battle,  and  good  to  be  strong  and 

free, 
To  carry  the  hearts  of  a  people  to  the  uttermost  enda 

of  sea, 
To  see  the  day  steal  up  the  bay  where  the  enemy  lies  in 

wait, 
To  run  your  ship  to  the  harbor's  lip  and  sink  her 

across  the  strait:  — 
But  better  the  golden  evening  when  the  ships  round 

heads  for  home, 
And  the  long  gray  miles  slip  swiftly  past  in  a  swirl  of 

seething  foam, 
And  the  people  wait  at  the  haven's  gate  to  greet  the 

men  who  win! 
Thank  God  for  peace!   Thank  God  for  peace,  when 

the  great  gray  ships  come  in ! 

Guy  Wetmore  CarryL 

LULLABY 

BEDTIME'S  come  fu'  little  boys, 

Po'  little  lamb, 
Too  tiahed  out  to  make  a  noise, 

Po'  little  lamb. 

You  gwine  t'  have  to-morrer  sho'? 
Yes,  you  tole  me  dat  befo', 
Don'  you  fool  me,  chile,  no  mo', 

Po'  little  lamb. 

You  been  bad  de  livelong  day, 

Po'  little  lamb. 
Th'owin'  stones  an'  runnin'  'way, 

Po'  little  lamb. 


284        PAUL  LAURENCE  DUNBAR 

My,  but  you's  a-runnin'  wiP, 
Look  jes'  lak  some  po'  folks'  chile; 
Mam'  gwine  whup  you  atter  while, 
Po'  little  lamb. 

Come  hyeah !  you  mos'  tiahed  to  def , 

Po'  little  lamb. 
Played  yo'se'f  clean  out  o'  bref, 

Po'  little  lamb. 

See  dem  han's  now  —  sich  a  sight! 
Would  you  evah  b'lieve  dey's  white? 
Stan'  still  twell  I  wash  'em  right, 

Po'  little  lamb. 

Jes'  cain't  hoP  yo'  haid  up  straight, 

Po'  little  lamb. 
Had  n't  oughter  played  so  late, 

Po'  little  lamb. 

Mammy  do'  know  whut  she'd  do,   , 
Ef  de  chillun's  all  lak  you; 
You 's  a  caution  now  f u'  true, 

Po'  little  lamb.  ,^ 

'% 

Lay  yo'  haid  down  in  my  lap, 

Po'  little  lamb. 
Y'  ought  to  have  a  right  good  slap, 

Po'  little  lamb. 

You  been  runnin'  roun'  a  heap. 
Shet  dem  eyes  an'  don'  you  peep, 
Dah  now,  dah  now,  go  to  sleep, 

Po'  little  lamb. 

Paul  Laurence  Dunbar, 


COMPENSATION  285 

COMPENSATION 

BECAUSE  I  had  loved  so  deeply, 

Because  I  had  loved  so  long, 
God  in  his  great  compassion 

Gave  me  the  gift  of  song. 

Because  I  have  loved  so  vainly, 

And  sung  with  such  faltering  breath, 

The  Master,  in  infinite  mercy, 
Offers  the  boon  of  Death. 

Paul  Laurence  Dunbar. 


INDEX  OF  FIRST  LINES 

A  cloud  possessed  the  hollow  field 204 

A  Fire-Mist  and  a  planet 238 

A  great,  still  Shape,  alone 163 

A  little  way  to  walk  with  you,  my  own 252 

A  little  while  (my  life  is  almost  set!) 145 

A  man  should  live  in  a  garret  aloof 166 

A  noiseless,  patient  spider 116 

A  song  of  hate  is  a  song  of  Hell 262 

A  stone  jug  and  a  pewter  mug 263 

A  thousand  silent  years  ago 86 

Above  the  pines  the  moon  was  slowly  drifting 177 

Across  -the  hills  of  Arcady 270 

Across  the  narrow  beach  we  flit 165 

Ah,  little  flower,  upspringing,  azure-eyed 210 

Ah!  sad  are  they  who  know  not  love 160 

Ah!  there  be  souls  none  understand 18) 

Ah!  worshipped  one,  ah,  faithful  Spring 274 

All  day  the  stormy  wind  has  blown 180 

All  in  the  leafy  darkness,  when  sleep  had  passed  me  by  255 

"All  quiet  along  the  Potomac,"  they  say 175 

All  ye  who  love  the  springtime  —  and  who  but  loves 

it  well 198 

An  apple  orchard  smells  like  wine 231 

As  a  twig  trembles,  which  a  bird 66 

As  the  insect  from  the  rock 180 

At  Shelley's  birth 203 

At  the  king's  gate  the  subtle  noon 149 

At  the  last,  tenderly 103 

Autumn  was  cold  in  Plymouth  town 223 

Ay!    Unto  thee  belong 156 

Because  I  had  loved  so  deeply 285 

Because  my  life  has  lain  so  close  to  thine 251 

Bedtime's  come  fu'  little  boys 283 


288          INDEX  OF   FIRST   LINES 

Behind  him  lay  the  gray  Azores 182 

Birds  are  singing  round  my  window 132 

Blessed  the  Dead  in  Spirit,  our  brave  dead 256 

Blessings  on  thee,  little  man 43 

Blue  gulf  all  around  us 121 

Bring  me  wine,  but  wine  which  never  grew 21 

By  the  flow  of  the  inland  river 134 

Came  the  relief.  "What,  sentry,  ho!" 177 

Can  freckled  August,  —  drowsing  warm  and  blond .  .  .  268 

Child  with  the  hungry  eyes 253 

Close  his  eyes;  his  work  is  done! 94 

Come,  lovely  and  soothing  Death 112 

Come,  on  thy  swaying  feet 244 

Dark,  thinned,  beside  the  wall  of  stone 232 

Daughter  of  Egypt,  veil  thine  eyes! 126 

Daughters  of  Time,  the  hypocritic  Days 21 

Days  that  come  and  go 209 

Death,  thou'rt  a  cordial  old  and  rare v  192 

Death 's  but  one  more  to-morrow.   Thou  art  gray ....  142 

Divinely  shapen  cup,  thy  lip 245 

Do  you  fear  the  force  of  the  wind 249 

Down  the  long  hall  she  glistens  like  a  star 208 

Enamored  architect  of  airy  rhyme 168 

Elysium  is  as  far  as  to 147 

Fair  are  the  flowers  and  the  children,  but  their  subtle 

suggestion  is  fairer 157 

Forenoon  and  afternoon  and  night,  —  Forenoon 188 

From  the  Desert  I  come  to  thee 127 

Give  me  the  splendid  sileat  sun  with  all  his  beams  full- 
dazzling 113 

Give  me  to  die  unwitting  of  the  day 152 

Good-bye,  —  no,  do  not  grieve  that  it  is  over 272 

Gray-cowled  wind  of  the  east! 271 

Great  God,  I  ask  thee  for  no  meaner  pelf 60 

Gre^n  be  the  turf  above  thee 8 


INDEX   OF   FIRST   LINES  289 

Heaven  is  not  reached  at  a  single  bound 84 

Helen,  thy  beauty  is  to  ine 51 

Her  lips  were  so  near 210 

Her  suffering  ended  with  the  day 59 

Here  lived  the  soul  enchanted 52 

High  above  hate  I  dwell 257 

High  thoughts  and  noble  in  all  lands 251 

How  falls  it,  oriole,  thou  hast  come  to  fly 201 

How  many  lives,  made  beautiful  and  sweet 30 

How  shall  we  know  it  is  the  last  good-bye? 161 

I  blew,  I  blew,  the  trumpet  loudly  sounding 117 

I  cannot  make  him  dead! *  9 

I  challenge  not  the  oracle 159 

I  count  my  time  by  times  that  I  meet  thee 196 

I  dare  not  think  that  thou  art  by,  to  stand 277 

I  do  not  own  an  inch  of  land 118 

I  dragged  my  body  to  the  pool  of  sleep 212 

^  fear  no  power  a  woman  wields 270 

i  fill  this  cup  to  one  made  up 19 

I  have  two  friends,  two  glorious  friends,  two  better 

could  not  be 123 

I  hear  you,  little  bird 219 

I  idle  stand  that  I  may  find  employ 60 

I  know  the  night  is  near  at  hand 141 

I  like  a  church,  I  like  a  cowl 24 

looked  one  night,  and  there  Semiramis 220 

love  my  life,  but  not  too  well 272 

made  the  cross  myself,  whose  weight 254 

many  times  thought  peace  had  come 147 

never  saw  a  moor 147 

saw  huii  once  before 56 

I  saw,  one  sultry  night  above  a  swamp 202 

I  stand  upon  the  summit  of  my  years 129 

I  stood  within  the  heart  of  God 278 

I  think  it  is  over,  over 143 

I  walked  beside  the  evening  sea 131 

I  went  to  dig  a  grave  for  Love 255 

If  I  lay  waste  and  wither  up  with  doubt 171 

If  life  be  as  a  flame  that  death  doth  kill 188 

if  the  red  slayer  think  he  slays 26 


290          INDEX  OF  FIRST   LINES 

If  the  things  of  earth  must  pass 246 

If  thy  sad  heart,  pining  for  human  love 52 

If  with  light  head  erect  I  sing 61 

In  Heaven  a  spirit  doth  dwell 47 

In  men  whom  men  condemn  as  ill 181 

In  spite  of  all  the  learned  have  said 3 

In  the  summer  even 162 

Into  the  woods  my  Master  went 191 

It  is  time  to  be  old 27 

Let  me  come  in  where  you  sit  weeping,  —  aye 225 

Light-winged  Smoke !  Icarian  bird 62 

Like  a  blind  spinner  in  the  sun 151 

Look  how  he  throws  them  up  and  up 258 

Look  off,  dear  Love,  across  the  sallow  sands 191 

Lord,  since  the  strongest  human  hands  I  know 252 

Many  are  the  wand-bearers 235 

Master  of  human  destinies  am  1 239 

Methinks  of ttimes  my  heart  is  like  some  bee 237 

Mine  eyes  have  seen  the  glory  of  the  coming  of  the  Lord  95 

Most  men  know  love  but  as  a  part  of  life 138 

My  Dearling!  —  thus,  in  days  long  fled 148 

My  heart,   I  cannot  still  it 82 

My  life  closed  twice  before  its  close 146 

My  mind  lets  go  a  thousand  things, 164 

My  short  and  happy  day  is  done 172 

My  soul  to-day 97 

Not  as  all  other  women  are 66 

Not  from  the  whole  wide  world  I  chose  thee 196 

O  bird,  thou  dartest  to  the  sun 83 

O  Death,  when  thou  shalt  come  to  me 230 

O  friends !  with  whom  my  feet  have  trod 37 

O,  it  is  great  for  our  country  to  die,  where  ranks  are 

contending! 7 

O  lonesome  sea-gull,  floating  far 149 

O  to  lie  in  long  grasses! 249 

Of  all  the  souls  that  stand  create 146 

Of  wounds  and  sore  defeat 279 


INDEX   OF   FIRST   LINES  291 

Oft  have  I  seen  at  some  cathedral  door 29 

Often  I  think  of  the  beautiful  town 30 

Oh,  days  of  beauty  standing  veiled  apart 243 

Oh,  the  shambling  sea  is  a  sexton  old 260 

Oh,  the  wind  from  the  desert  blew  in! 247 

Oh,  what  a  night  for  a  soul  to  go! 203 

Old  man  never  had  much  to  say 225 

Once  I  came  to  Siena 229 

Once  it  smiled  a  silent  dell 49 

One  night  I  lay  asleep  in  Africa 139 

One  night  we  were  together,  you  and  1 220 

One  on  another  against  the  wall 117 

One  other  bitter  drop  to  drink 170 

One  sweetly  solemn  thought 129 

One  whitest  lily,  reddest  rose 209 

Out  of  the  cradle  endlessly  rocking 104 

Out  of  the  dusk  a  shadow 203 

Piper  of  the  fields  and  woods 241 

Room  for  a  soldier!  lay  him  in  the  clover 89 

Sauntering  hither  on  listless  wings 179 

See,  from  this  counterfeit  of  him 87 

Serene,  I  fold  my  hands  and  wait 193 

Set  your  face  to  the  sea,  fond  lover 169 

Since,  if  you  stood  by  my  side  to-day 130 

Sleep  sweetly  in  your  humble  graves 136 

So  fallen!  so  lost!  the  light  withdrawn 46 

So  Love  is  dead,  that  has  been  quick  so  long! 160 

So  many  gods,  so  many  creeds 238 

Softer  than  silence,  stiller  than  still  air 160 

Some  day,  some  day  of  days,  threading  the  street.  .  .  .  158 

Spirit  that  moves  the  sap  in  spring 200 

Spring,  with  that  nameless  pathos  in  the  air 137 

Streets  of  the  roaring  town 280 

'T  is  to  yourself  I  speak;  you  cannot  know 59 

The  days  grow  shorter,  the  nights  grow  longer 237 

The  despot's  heel  is  on  thy  shore 172 

The  dew  is  on  the  heather 228 


292          INDEX   OF   FIRST   LINES 

The  faithful  helm  commands  the  keel 194 

The  fire  of  love  was  burning,  yet  so  low 217 

The  grass  of  fifty  Aprils  hath  waved  green 207 

The  green  is  on  the  grass  and  the  blue  is  in  the  sky. . .  197 

The  little  toy  dog  is  covered  with  dust 214 

The  maid  who  binds  her  warrior's  sash 90 

The  melancholy  days  are  come,  the  saddest  of  the  year  17 

The  moon  resumed  all  heaven  now 183 

The  moonbeams  over  Arno's  vale  in  silver  flood  were 

pouring 218 

The  muffled  drums'  sad  roll  has  beat 91 

The  Old  Soul  came  from  far 233 

The  pines  were  dark  on  Ramoth  hill 40 

The  red  rose  whispers  of  passion 195 

The  royal  feast  was  done;  the  King 18G 

The  shadows  lay  along  Broadway 36 

The  speckled  sky  is  dim  with  snow 140 

The  sunshine  of  thine  eyes 217 

The  swallow  is  flying  over 64 

The  turtle  on  yon  withered  bough 3 

The  wild  and  windy  morning  is  lit  with  lurid  fire 124 

The  wind  from  out  the  west  is  blowing 195 

There  are  gams  for  all  our  losses 132 

They  do  me  wrong  who  say  I  come  no  more 240 

They  do  neither  plight  nor  wed 250 

They  halted  at  the  terrace  wall 222 

This  I  beheld,  or  dreamed  it  in  a  dream 186 

This  is  the  loggia  Browning  loved 221 

This  is  the  ship  of  pearl,  which,  poets  feign 54 

This  was  your  butterfly,  you  see 169 

Thou  little  bird,  thou  dweller  by  the  sea 12 

Thou  needst  not  weave  nor  spin 189 

Thou  wast  that  all  to  me,  love 50 

Thought  is  deeper  than  all  speech 58 

Through  love  to  light!   Oh  wonderful  the  way 197 

Time  at  my  elbow  plucks  me  sore 241 

To  eastward  ringing,  to  westward  winging,  o'er  map- 
less  miles  of  sea 281 

To  him  who  in  the  love  of  nature  holds 14 

To  tremble,  when  I  touch  her  hands 230 

Two  shall  be  born  the  whole  wide  world  apart 253 


INDEX   OF   FIRST  LINES  293 

Under  a  sultry,  yellow  sky 133 

Unhappy  dreamer,  who  outwinged  in  flight 267 

Unto  the  Prison  House  of  Pain  none  willingly  repair.  .  216 

We  break  the  glass,  whose  sacred  wine 20 

We  have  sent  him  seeds  of  the  melon's  core 267 

We  sat  within  the  farmhouse  old 34 

We,  sighing,  said,  "Our  Pan  is  dead," 63 

We  were  not  many,  we  who  stood 28 

We  wondered  why  he  always  turned  aside 190 

Weak-winged  is  song 68 

What,  are  you  hurt,  Sweet?   So  am  1 215 

What  is  the  real  good? 194 

What  of  the  Darkness?   Is  it  very  fair? 277 

When  Freedom  from  her  mountain  height 5 

When  she  comes  home  again!  a  thousand  ways 224 

When  the  grass  shall  cover  me 211 

Where 's  he  that  died  o'  Wednesday? 153 

White  in  her  woven  shroud 244 

Whither,  midst  falling  dew 13 

Who  nearer  Nature's  life  would  truly  come 63 

Why  didst  thou  come  into  my  life  so  late 128 

Why  do  the  wheels  go  whirring  round 273 

Wind  of  the  North 232 

Within  his  sober  realm  of  leafless  trees 100 

Within  the  garden  of  Beaucaire 154 

Wynken,  Blynken,  and  Nod  one  night 213 

Yes,  death  is  at  the  bottom  of  the  cup 171 

You  must  mean  more  than  just  this  hour 275 

You  to  the  left  and  I  to  the  right 265 


INDEX  OF  TITLES 

A  Little  While  I  fain  would  Linger  Yet Hayne  145 

After-Song Gilder  197 

After  Wings Sarah  M.  B.  Piatt  169 

Alas! Phcebe  Gary  130 

American  Flag,  The Drake  5 

Arcady,  To Going  270 

At  Best O'Reilly  194 

At  Magnolia  Cemetery Timrod  136 

At  the  Crossroads Hovey  265 

Auspex Lowell  82 

Bacchus Emerson  21 

Ballad Harriet  Prescott  Spo/ord  162 

Ballad  of  Trees  and  the  Master,  A Lanier  191 

Barefoot  Boy,  The Whittier  43 

Battle-Hymn  of  the  Republic,  The. .  .  Julia  Ward  Howe  95 

Beati  Mortui Louise  Imogen  Guiney  256 

Bedouin  Song Taylor  127 

Beggars Etta  Higginson  253 

Bereaved Riley  225 

Birds R.  H.  Stoddard  132 

Bivouac  of  the  Dead,  The O'Hara  91 

Blackbird,  The   Alice  Gary  117 

Blue  and  the  Gray,  The Finch  134 

Bookra Warner  139 

3rahma Emerson  26 

Brave  at  Home,  The Read  96 

Browning  at  Asolo Johnson  221 

Burial  of  the  Dane,  The Brownett  121 

Bust  of  Dante,  On  a Parsons  87 

Byron Miller  181 

Byron,  Lord,  On  the  Proposal  to  erect  a  Monument  in 

England  to Emma  Lazarus  207 

Captain's  Feather,  The Peck  228 


290  INDEX   OF   TITLES 

Care Virginia  Woodward  Cloud  255 

Chambered  Nautilus,  The Holmes  54 

Chant  of  Love  for  England,  A Helen  Gray  Cone  262 

Chartless Emily  Dickinson  14r/ 

Choice Emily  Dickinson  14( 

City,  The Burton  25v 

Closing  Scene,  The Read  IOC 

Columbus Miller  182 

Commemoration  Ode Lowell  68 

Compensation Dunbar  285 

Coronation Helen  Hunt  Jackson  149 

Cricket,  The Kenyan  241 

Daisies,  The Woodberry  229 

Dante,  On  a  Bust  of Parsons  87 

Dawning  o'  the  Year,  The Mary  Elizabeth  Blake  198 

Days Emerson  21 

Days  that  Come  and  Go Cheney  209 

Death-Bed,  A James  Aldrich  59 

Death  Carol Walt  Whitman  112 

Death  of  a  Metaphysician,  On  the Santayana  267 

Death  of  the  Flowers,  The Bryant  17 

Dickens  in  Camp Harte  177 

Dies  Ultima Sherman  244 

Dirge  for  a  Soldier Boker  94 

Dirge  for  One  who  fell  in  Battle Parsons  89 

Divina  Commedia Longfellow  29 

Divine  Awe Woodberry  230 

Do  you  fear  the  Wind? Garland  249 

Drake,  Joseph  Rodman,  On  the  Death  of Halleck  8 

Drifting Read  97 

Each  in  his  own  Tongue Carruth  238 

East  Wind,  The Going  271 

Ebb  and  Flow Curtis  131 

Elegiac Percival  7 

Enamored  Architect  of  Airy  Rhyme T.  B,  Aldrich  168 

Eternal  Goodness,  The Whittier  37 

Evening Mitchell  141 

Evening  Song Lanier  191 

Evoe ! Edith  M.  Thomas  235 

Evolution..                                                              ..Tabb  203 


INDEX   OF   TITLES  297 

Falstaff's  Song Stedman  153 

Farewell,  A Harriet  Monroe  272 

Fate Susan  Marr  Spotting  253 

Fire  of  Driftwood,  The Longfellow  34 

Fireflies Fawcett  202 

Flight  of  the  Goddess,  The T.  B.  Aldrich  166 

Flight  of  Youth,  The R.  H .  Stoddard  132 

Flos  Aevorum Le  Gallienne  275 

Fool's  Prayer,  The Sill  186 

Four  Winds,  The Luders  232 

Fruitionless Ina  Coolbrith  210 

Giotto's  Tower Longfellow  30 

Give  me  the  Splendid  Silent  Sun Walt  Whitman  113 

Gnosis Crunch  58 

Gradatim Holland  84 

Gravedigger,  The Carman  260 

Health,  A Pinkney  19 

Helen,  To Poe  51 

Her  Picture Ellen  Mackay  Hutchinson  223 

Hie  Jacet Louise  Chandler  Moulton  160 

High  Tide  at  Gettysburg,  The W.  Thompson  204 

House  of  Paul,  The Florence  Earle  Coates  216 

Human  Touch,  The Burton  251 

Hurt  Child,  To  a Grace  Denio  Litchfield  215 

I  count  my  Tune  by  Times  that  I  meet  thee Gilder  196 

I  fear  no  Power  a  Woman  wields McGaffey  270 

Ichabod Whittier  46 

Idler,  The Jones  Very  60 

If Howells  171 

f  only  the  Dreams  Abide Scollard  246 

In  Exile Mary  Elizabeth  Blake  197 

In  Explanation Learned  210 

In  Harbor Hayne  143 

In  the  Dark Sophie  Jewett  252 

In  the  Grass Garland  249 

In  Time  of  Grief Lizette  Woodworth  Reese  232 

Indian  Burying-Ground,  The Freneau  3 

Indirection Realf  157 


INDEX   OF   TITLES 


Infinity  Saiage  277 

Inheritance Mary  Thacher  Higginson  190 

Inspiration Thoreau  61 

Interlude Ella  Wheeler  Wilcox  237 

Ireland J.J.  Piatt  16; 

Israfel Poe  4', 

Iter  Supremum Hardy  203 

Joy  of  the  Morning Markham  219 

Juggler,  The Carman  258 

Kavanagh,  The Hovey  263 

Khamsin Scollard  247 

Ku  Klux Cawein  267 

Last  Good-bye,  The Louise  Chandler  Moulton  161 

Last  Invocation,  The Walt  Whitman  103 

Last  Leaf,  The Holmes  56 

Late  Comer,  To  a Julia  C.  R.  Dorr  128 

Life Sill  188 

Lion  and  Lioness Markham  220 

Little  Beach  Bird,  The Dana  12 

Little  Boy  Blue Field  214 

Little  Parable,  A Anne  Reeve  Aldrich  254 

Little  Way,  A Stanton  252 

Look  into  the  Gulf,  A Markham  22C 

Love  and  Italy Johnson  222 

Love  Song Harriet  Monroe  272 

Love's  Change Anne  Reeve  Aldrich  255 

Lullaby Dunbar  283 

Magnolia  Cemetery,  At Timrod  136 

Making  of  Man,  The Chadicick  180 

Memory T.  B.  Aldrich  164 

Mercedes Elizabeth  Stoddard  133 

Midwinter Trowbridge  140 

Monterey Hoffman  28 

Mors  Benefica Stedman  152 

My  Child Pierpont  9 

My  Dearling Elizabeth  Akers  Allen  148 

My  Lost  Youth Longfellow  30 


INDEX   OF   TITLES  299 

My  Love Lowell  66 

My  Maryland Randall  172 

My  Playmate Whittier  40 

My  Prayer Thoreau  60 

Nearer  Home Phoebe  Gary  129 

Noiseless,  Patient  Spider,  A Walt  Whitman  116 

Of  One  who  Seemed  to  have  Failed Mitchell  142 

"Of  Wounds  and  Sore  Defeat" Moody  279 

Old  Man  and  Jim,  The Riley  225 

Old  Soul,  The Edith  M.  Thomas  233 

On  a  Bust  of  Dante Parsons  87 

On  a  Greek  Vase Sherman  245 

On  a  Soldier  fallen  in  the  Philippines Moody  280 

On  the  Death  of  a  Metaphysician Santayana  267 

On  the  Death  of  Joseph  Rodman  Drake Halleck  8 

On  the  Proposal  to  erect  a  Monument  in  England  to 

Lord  Byron Emma  Lazarus  207 

One Cheney  209 

One  Distant  April Gertrude  Hall  274 

One  in  Paradise,  To Poe  50 

One  who  Seemed  to  have  Failed,  Of Mitchell  142 

Opportunity Ingalls  239 

Opportunity Malone  240 

Opportunity Sill  186 

Oriole,  To  an Fawcett  201 

Out  of  the  Cradle  endlessly  Rocking.  .  .  Walt  Whitman  104 

Palabras  Carifiosas T.  B.  Aldrich  165 

Pandora  Song Moody  278 

Parting Emily  Dickinson  146 

Peace Emily  Dickinson  147 

Picket-Guard,  The Ethel  Lynn  Beers  175 

Playmate,  My Whittier  40 

Poe,  Edgar  Allan,  To Sarah  Helen  Whitman  52 

Poe's  Cottage  at  Fordham Boner  52 

Pool  of  Sleep,  The Bates  212 

Power  of  Beauty,  The J.  H.  Morse  189 

Praxiteles  and  Phryne Story  80 

Prayer,  My Thoreau  60 


300  INDEX   OF   TITLES 

Prelude,  A Maurice  Thompson  200 

Prevision Ada  Foster  Murray  243 

Problem,  The Emerson  24 

Proven  gal  Lovers Stedman  154 

Quatorzain Timrod  138 

Racers,  The Kenyan  241 

Rain-Crow,  The Cawein  268 

Refuge Winter  169 

Relieving   Guard Harte  177 

Rhyme  of  Life,  A C.  W.  Stoddard  188 

Rubicon,  The Winter  170 

Sanctuary Louise  Imogen  Guiney  257 

Sandpiper,  The Celia  Thaxter  162 

Sea-Bird,  To  a Harie  179 

Sea-Birds Elizabeth  Akers  Allen  149 

Sea-blown Miller  181 

Shadow-Child,  The Harriet  Monroe  273 

She  Came  and  Went Lowell  66 

Shelley,  To Tabb  203 

Smoke Thoreau  62 

Snowing  of  the  Pines,  The T.  W.  Higginson  116 

Soldier  fallen  in  the  Philippines,  On  a Moody  280 

Some  Day  of  Days Nora  Perry  158 

Songs Gilder  196 

Song Maria  White  Lowell  83 

Song Pinkney  20 

Song Taylor  126 

Song  from  the  Persian T.  B.  Aldrich  165 

Song  of  Thyrsis Freneau  3 

Sonnet Ella  Wheeler  Wilcox  237 

Spinning Helen  Hunt  Jackson  151 

Spirit  of  the  Fall,  The Danske  Dandridge  244 

Spring Timrod  137 

Stirrup-Cup,  The Hay  172 

Stirrup-Cup,  The Lanier  192 

Strip  of  Blue,  A Lucy  Larcom  118 

Strong  as  Death Bunner  230 

Sundered.  .;                                               . .  .S.  II.  Morse  159 


INDEX  OF   TITLES  301 

Sunshine  of  thine  Eyes,  The Lathrop  217 

Suspense Emily  Dickinson  147 

Take  Heart Edna  Dean  Proctor  180 

Tears  in  Spring William  Ellery  Channing  64 

Terminus Emerson  27 

"Thalatta! Thalatta!" J.  B.  Brown  129 

Thanatopsis Bryant  14 

Theocritus Annie  Fields  156 

Thoreau A.  B.  Alcott  63 

Thoreau's  Flute Louise  M.  Alcott  63 

Thus  Far Sophie  Jewett  251 

To  a  Hurt  Child Grace  Denio  Litchfield  215 

ToaLate Comer Julia  C.  R.  Dorr  128 

To  a  Sea-Bird Harie  179 

To  a  Waterfowl Bryant  13 

To  an  Oriole Fawcett  201 

To  Arcady Going  270 

To  Edgar  Allan  Poe Sarah  Helen  Whitman  52 

To  Helen Poe  51 

To  One  in  Paradise Poe  50 

To  Shelley Tabb  203 

Trumpeter,  The T.  W.  Higginson  117 

Two  Friends,  The Leland  123 

Tyre Taylor  124 

Unseen  Spirits Willis  36 

Valley  of  Unrest,  The Poe  49 

Veery,  The Van  Dyke  218 

Venus  of  the  Louvre Emma  Lazarus  208 

Waiting Burroughs  193 

Waterfowl,  To  a Bryant  13 

What  is  Good O'Reilly  194 

iVhat  of  the  Darkness? Le  Gallienne  277 

What  shall  it  Profit? Howells  171 

When  Lilacs  Last  hi  the  Dooryard  Bloomed 

Walt  Whitman  112 

Wlien  She  Comes  Home Riley  224 

When  the  Grass  shall  Cover  Me Ina  Coolbrith  211 


302  INDEX   OF   TITLES 

When  the  Great  Gray  Ships  come  in Carryl  281 

White  Rose,  A O'Reitti/  195 

Wrind  of  Sorrow,  The Van  Dyke  217 

Wise Lizette  Woodworth  Reese  231 

Woods  that  bring  the  Sunset  Near,  The Gilder  195 

World's  Need,  The Ella  Wheeler  Wilcox  238 

Wynken,  Blynken,  and  Nod Field  213 

Yourself Jones  Very  59 

Yukon,  The Miller  18£ 


INDEX  OF  AUTHORS 

ALCOTT,  AMOS  BRONSON 63 

ALCOTT,  LOUISA  MAY 63 

ALDRICH,  ANNE  REEVE 254,  255 

ALDRICH,  JAMES 59 

ALDRICH,  THOMAS  BAILEY 164,  165,  166,  168 

ALLEN,  ELIZABETH  AKERS 148,  149 

BATES,  ARLO 212 

BEERS,  ETHEL  LYNN 175 

BLAKE,  MARY  ELIZABETH 197,  198 

BOKER,  GEORGE  HENRY 94 

BONER,  JOHN  HENRY 52 

BROWN,  JOSEPH  BROWNLEE 129 

BROWNELL,  HENRY  HOWARD 121 

BRYANT,  WILLIAM  CULLEN 13,  14,  17 

BUNNER,  HENRY  CUYLER 230 

BURROUGHS,  JOHN 193 

BURTON,  RICHARD 250,  251 

CARMAN,  BLISS 258,  260 

CARRUTH,  WILLIAM  HERBERT 238 

CARRYL,  GUY  WETMORE 281 

GARY,  ALICE 117 

GARY,  PHOEBE 129,  130 

CAWEIN,  MADISON   267,  268 

CHADWICK,  JOHN  WHITE 180 

CHANNING,  WILLIAM  ELLERY 64 

CHENEY,  JOHN  VANCE 209 

CLOUD,  VIRGINIA  WOODWARD 255 

COATES,  FLORENCE  EARLE 216 

CONE,  HELEN  GRAY 262 

COOLBRITH,  INA 210,  211 

CRANCH,  CHRISTOPHER  PEARSE 58 

CURTIS,  GEORGE  WTILLIAM 131 


304  INDEX   OF   AUTHORS 

DANA,  RICHARD  HENRY 12 

DANDRIDGE,  DANSKE 244 

DICKINSON,  EMILY 14-6,  147 

DORR,  JULIA  C.  R 128 

DRAKE,  JOSEPH  RODMAN 5 

DUNBAR,  PAUL  LAURENCE 283,  285 

EMERSON,  RALPH  WALDO 21,  24,  26,  27 

FAWCETT,  EDGAR 201,  202 

FIELD,  EUGENE 213,  214 

FIELDS,  ANNIE 156 

FINCH,  FRANCIS  MILES 134 

FRENEAU,  PHILIP 3 

GARLAND,  HAMLIN 249 

GILDER,  RICHARD  WATSON 195,  196,  197 

GOING,  CHARLES  BUXTON 270,  271 

GUINEY,  LOUISE  IMOGEN 256,  257 

HALL,  GERTRUDE 274 

HALLECK,  FITZ-GREENE 8 

HARDY,  ARTHUR  SHERBURNE 203 

HARTE,  FRANCIS  BRET  177,  179 

HAY,  JOHN 172 

HAYNE,  PAUL  HAMILTON 143,  145 

HIGGINSON,  ELLA 253 

HIGGINSON,  MARY  THACHER 190 

HIGGINSON,  THOMAS  WENTWORTH 116,  117 

HOFFMAN,  CHARLES  FENNO 28 

HOLLAND,  JOSIAH  GILBERT 84 

HOLMES,  OLIVER  WENDELL    54,  56 

HOVEY,  RICHARD 263,  265 

HOWE,  JULIA  WARD 95 

HOWELLS,  WILLIAM  DEAN 171 

HUTCHINSON,  ELLEN  MACKAY 223 

INGALLS,  JOHN  JAMES 239 

JACKSON,  HELEN  HUNT 149,  151 

JEWETT,  SOPHIE 251,  252 

JOHNSON,  ROBERT  UNDERWOOD 221,  222 


INDEX   OF  AUTHORS  305 

KENYON,  JAMES  B 241 

LANIER,  SIDNEY 191,  192 

LARCOM,  LUCY 118 

LATHROP,  GEORGE  PARSONS 217 

LAZARUS,  EMMA 207,  208 

LEARNED,  WALTER 210 

LE  GALLIENNE,  RICHARD 275,  277 

LELAND,  CHARLES  GODFREY 123 

LITCHFIELD,  GRACE  DENIO 215 

LONGFELLOW,  HENRY  WADSWORTH 29,  30,  34 

LOWELL,  JAMES  RUSSELL 66,  68,  82 

LOWELL,  MARIA  WHITE 83 

LUDERS,  CHARLES  HENRY '. 232 

MALONE,  WALTER 240 

MARKHAM,  EDWIN 219,  220 

MCGAFFEY,  ERNEST 270 

MILLER,  JOAQUIN 181,  182,  183 

MITCHELL,  S.  WEIR 141,  142 

MONROE,  HARRIET 272,  273 

MOODY,  WILLIAM  VAUGHN 278,  279,  28C 

MORSE,  JAMES  HERBERT 189 

MORSE,  SIDNEY  HENRY 159 

MOULTON,  LOUISE  CHANDLER 160,  161 

MURRAY,  ADA  FOSTER 243 

O'HARA,  THEODORE 91 

O'REILLY,  JOHN  BOYLE 194,  195 

PARSONS,  THOMAS  WILLIAM    87,  89 

PECK,  SAMUEL  MINTURN 228 

PERCIVAL,  JAMES  GATES 7 

PERRY,  NORA 158 

PIATT,  JOHN  JAMES 163 

PIATT,  SARAH  M.  B 169 

PIERPONT,  JOHN 9 

PINKNEY,  EDWARD  COATE    19,  20 

POE,  EDGAR  ALLAN    47,  49,  50,  51 

PHOCTOR,  EDNA  DEAN 180 


306  INDEX   OF   AUTHORS 

RANDALL,  JAMES  RYDER 172 

READ,  THOMAS  BUCHANAN 96,  97,  100 

REALF,  RICHARD 157 

REESE,  LIZETTE  WOODWORTH 231,  232 

RILEY,  JAMES  WHITCOMB 224,  225 

SANTA YANA,  GEORGE 267 

SAVAGE,  PHILIP  HENRY 277 

SCOLLARD,  CLINTON 246,  247 

SILL,  EDWARD  ROWLAND 180,  188 

SHERMAN,  FRANK  DEMPSTER 244,  245 

SPALDING,  SUSAN  MARR 253 

SPOFFORD,  HARRIET  PRESCOTT 162 

STANTON,  FRANK  L 252 

STEDMAN,  EDMUND  CLARENCE 152,  153,  151 

STODDARD,  CHARLES  WARREN 188 

STODDARD,  ELIZABETH 133 

STODDARD,  RICHARD  HENRY 132 

STORY,  WILLIAM  WETMORE 86 

TABB,  JOHN  BANNISTER ,  .  ,  .  .     203 

TAYLOR,  BAYARD 124,  136,  127 

THAXTER,  CELIA 162 

THOMAS,  EDITH  M 233,  235 

THOMPSON,  MAURICE 200 

THOMPSON,  WILL  H 204 

THOREAU,  HENRY  DAVID 60,  61,  62 

TIMROD,  HENRY 136,  137,  138 

TROWBRIDGE,  JOHN  TOWNSEND 140 

VAN  DYKE,  HENRY 217,  218 

VERY,  JONES 59,  60 

WARNER,  CHARLES  DUDLEY 139 

WHITMAN,  SARAH  HELEN 52 

WHITMAN,  WALT 103,  104,  112,  113,  116 

WHITTIER,  JOHN  GREENLEAF 37,  40,  43,  46 

WILCOX,  ELLA  WHEELER 237,  238 

WILLIS,  NATHANIEL  PARKER 36 

WINTER,  WILLIAM 169,  170 

WOODBERRY,    GEORGE   EDWARD 229,  230 


BIOGRAPHICAL  NOTES 

ALCOTT,  AMOS  BRONSON.  Born  in  Wolcott,  Connecticut, 
1799;  died  in  Boston,  1888.  Dean  of  the  Concord  School  of 
Philosophy  and  intimately  identified  with  the  Transcenden- 
tal movement  and  its  promoters,  Amos  Bronson  Alcott  holds 
an  interesting  and  picturesque  place  in  American  literary 
history.  His  published  work  alone  would  scarcely  keep  alive 
his  name,  consisting  chiefly,  as  it  does,  of  short  essays,  and 
expanded  notes  of  his  famous  "Conversations,"  together 
with  some  poems  of  indifferent  merit;  but  as  a  philosopher, 
a  teacher,  a  liberator  of  thought,  and  the  friend  and  spirit- 
ual colleague  of  Emerson,  he  is  a  distinct,  even  unique,  figure 
in  the  little  group  of  Uluminati  known  as  the  "Transcen- 
dentalists." 

ALCOTT,  LOUISA  MAY.  Born  in  Germantown,  Pennsylvania, 
1832;  died  in  Boston,  1888.  As  the  daughter  of  the  Concord 
philosopher,  Louisa  May  Alcott  spent  her  youth  in  association 
with  her  father's  friends,  Emerson,  Thoreau,  William  Ellery 
Channing,  Margaret  Fuller,  and  others  who  made  the  period 
memorable.  Fortunately,  however,  for  the  family  of  the 
philosopher,  her  talents  ran  in  a  more  practical  channel,  and 
after  trying  her  hand  at  many  occupations,  she  found  her 
true  gift  in  writing  stories  for  the  young.  Her  work  in  this 
field  still  maintains  its  supremacy,  particularly  "Little 
Women,"  which  has  become  a  classic  of  child  literature. 

ALDRICH,  ANNE  REEVE.  Born  in  New  York  City,  1866; 
died  there,  1892.  Miss  Aldrich  was  the  grand-niece  of  the 
poet,  James  Aldrich,  and  possessed  a  lyric  gift  just  coming 
to  its  full  expression  when  her  untimely  death  occurred. 
Her  two  volumes  of  verse  are,  "The  Rose  of  Flame"  (1889) 
and  "Songs  About  Love,  Life,  and  Death." 

ALDRICH,  JAMES.  Born  in  Mattituck,  Long  Island,  1810; 
died  in  New  York  City,  1856.  Mr.  Aldrich  founded,  in  1840, 
the  "Literary  Gazette,"  in  which  most  of  his  poems  appeared. 
No  volume  of  his  poems  was  issued  during  his  life,  but  his 
daughter,  Mrs.  Ely,  published  in  1884  a  small  collection  for 
private  circulation. 

ALDRICH,  THOMAS  BAILEY.  Born  in  Portsmouth,  New 
Hampshire,  November  11,  1836;  died  in  Boston,  March  19, 
1-307.  There  seems  a  certain  incongruity  in  the  fact  that 
Thomas  Bailey  Aldrich,  fastidious  and  exquisite  artist, 
should  have  spent  his  early  years  in  New  York  City  journal- 


308  BIOGRAPHICAL   NOTES 

ism  and  that  his  first  recognition,  at  the  age  of  seventeen, 
should  have  come  from  N.  P.  Willis,  through  whose  favor 
he  became  a  regular  contributor  to  "The  Mirror  "and  "Home 
Journal."  New  York  City  journalism  at  that  period,  how- 
ever, commanded  the  services  of  a  little  group  of  elect 
spirits,  rarely  so  conjoined,  among  whom  Bayard  Taylor, 
the  Stoddards,  Fitz- James  O'Brien,  William  Winter,  and 
Edmund  Clarence  Stedman  held  chief  place.  Stedman  bears 
testimony  to  the  charm  and  good-fellowship  of  Aldrich,  who 
"added  the  zest  and  wit  of  his  brilliant  companionship  to 
the  gatherings  of  the  bright  young  writers  cheerily  strug- 
gling for  subsistence  and  reputation  in  that  unfriendly 
time."  His  period  of  journalistic  work  in  New  York  City, 
which  extended  over  several  years,  was  followed  by  a  similar 
period  in  Boston  where  he  edited  the  "Atlantic  Monthly" 
from  1881  to  1890.  While  Aldrich  has  not  deeply  influenced 
American  poetry,  he  has  left  a  body  of  work  of  great  beauty. 
He  was  always  the  artist  and  his  briefest  lyric  has  the  touch 
of  finality.  In  the  short  story  he  had  a  gift  scarcely  less  dis- 
tinguished, and  he  also  wrote  several  plays,  of  which  "Mer- 
cedes" was  produced  in  Boston  in  1893  and  "Judith  of 
Bethulia"  in  New  York  City  in  1904.  As  Aldrich's  entire 
poetical  work  has  been  brought  together  in  a  definitive  edi- 
tion, it  is  unnecessary  to  list  the  separate  volumes. 

ALJ.GN,  ELIZABETH  .  AKERS.  Born  Elizabeth  Ann  Chase, 
in  Strong,  Maine,  1832.  She  is  popularly  known  as  the  au- 
thor of  "llock  Me  to  Sleep,  Mother,"  although  the  author- 
ship of  the  poem  was  long  in  doubt  owing  to  the  fact  that 
Mrs.  Allen  began  writing  under  the  pseudonym  of  "Florence 
Percy"  and  afterwards  changed  to  her  own  name,  making 
some  confusion  in  regard  to  her  work. 

BATES,  ARLO.  Born  in  East  Machias,  Maine,  1850. 
Graduated  at  Bowdoin  College.  Served  for  a  period  as  editor 
of  the  "Boston  Sunday  Courier,"  but  left  journalism  to  be- 
come Professor  of  English  in  the  Massachusetts  Institute  of 
Technology.  He  has  published  several  volumes  of  verse. 

BEERS,  ETHELINDA  ("Ethel  Lynn  Beers").  Born  in  Go- 
shen,  New  York,  1827;  died  at  Orange,  New  Jersey,  1879. 
Her  well-known  poem,  "The  Picket  Guard,"  which  appeared 
in  "Harper's  Weekly"  in  1861,  was  afterwards  changed  in  its 
title  to  "All  Quiet  Along  the  Potomac,"  and  her  volume  of 
poems  issued  in  1879  came  out  under  this  name. 

BLAKE,  MARY  ELIZABETH.  Born  in  Dungarven,  Ireland, 
1840;  died  in  Boston,  1907.  Mrs.  Blake's  parents  emigrated 
to  America  when  she  was  but  six  years  old  and  most  of  her 
life  was  spent  in  Boston.  "In  the  Harbor  of  Hope"  (1901) 
is  one  of  her  finest  volumes. 


BIOGRAPHICAL   NOTES  309 

BOKEI*,  GEORGE  HENRY.  Born  in  Philadelphia,  Pennsyl- 
vania, October  6,  1823;  died  there,  January  2,  1890.  Boker 
was  known  chiefly  as  a  dramatist  and  diplomat,  although  he 
published  several  collections  of  lyric  verse.  His  poetic  dramas, 
"Calaynos"  and  "Francesca  di  Rimini,"  were  both  popular 
stage  successes.  In  lyric  verse  his  best  powers  were  called 
out  by  the  Civil  War  and  several  of  his  poems  became 
widely  familiar.  He  entered  the  diplomatic  service  and  was 
successively  Minister  to  Turkey  and  to  Russia.  He  is  closely 
associated  in  his  literary  life  with  Bayard  Taylor  and  Richard 
Henry  Stoddard. 

BONER,  JOHN  HENRY.  Born  in  Salem,  North  Carolina, 
1845;  died  in  Washington,  D.C.,  1903.  Mr.  Boner  spent 
his  early  youth  in  journalism  in  Salem  and  Asheville,  North 
Carolina,  leaving  this  work  to  become  Chief  Clerk  of  the 
North  Carolina  House  of  Representatives.  Later  he  entered 
the  civil  service  at  Washington,  where  he  remained  until 
1887,  when  he  returned  to  journalism,  being  connected  with 
the  "Literary  Digest"  and  other  periodicals.  In  his  last 
years  he  reentered  bureau  work  in  Washington.  His  volume 
of  poems,  "Whispering  Pines,"  was  published  in  1883. 

BROWN,  JOSEPH  BROWNLEE.  Born  in  Charleston,  South 
Carolina,  1824;  died  in  Brooklyn,  New  York,  1888.  Grad- 
uated at  Dartmouth  College.  Became  identified  with  the 
cult  of  Transcendentalism  in  its  later  phases,  and  contri- 
buted frequently  to  the  "Atlantic  Monthly."  He  is  chiefly 
known  for  the  fine  sonnet  contained  in  this  collection. 

BROWNELL,  HENRY  HOWARD.  Born  in  Providence,  Rhode 
Island,  February  6,  1820;  died  in  Hartford,  Connecticut, 
1872.  His  early  years  were  spent  in  the  practice  of  the  law 
which  he  abandoned  for  literature,  and  at  the  outset  of  the 
Civil  War  a  poem  of  his  upon  Farragut  having  attracted  that 
commander's  attention,  Brownell  was  appointed  as  acting 
ensign  on  board  the  "  Hartford."  He  witnessed  the  battle  of 
Mobile  Bay  and  at  the  close  of  the  war  accompanied  Farra- 
gut upon  his  European  cruise. 

BRYANT,  WILLIAM  CULLEN.  Born  in  Cummington,  Massa- 
chusetts, November  3,  1794;  died  in  New  York  City,  June 
12,  1878.  Although  his  final  fame  will  rest  upon  a  few  poems 
written  in  his  early  youth,  the  dignity,  even  majesty,  of  much 
of  Bryant's  work  and  its  fineness  of  execution  place  it  among 
the  nobler  forces  of  American  literature.  The  precocious  de- 
velopment of  Bryant's  poetic  faculty  has  seldom  been  paral- 
leled. At  thirteen  he  published  a  poem  on  the  "Progress  of 
Knowledge"  and  followed  this,  at  fourteen,  with  a  philippic 
of  a  political  nature  entitled  "The  Embargo."  While  thess 
poems  had  no  value  beyond  the  moment,  they  served  as 


310  BIOGRAPHICAL   NOTES 

technical  preparation  for  "Thanatopsis,"  written  three  years 
later  when  Bryant  was  but  seventeen.  There  is  perhaps  a 
connection  between  the  mature  thought  and  grave  beauty  of 
the  poem  and  the  fact  that  Bryant's  early  youth  held  much 
disappointment  and  frustration.  His  father  had  little  sym- 
pathy with  his  poetic  aims  and  often  severely  criticized  his 
early  attempts  at  verse.  He  was  disappointed  also  in  obtain- 
ing a  college  education,  and,  after  a  year  at  Williams,  was 
compelled  to  leave  and  take  up  the  study  of  the  law.  He 
was  admitted  to  the  bar  in  1815  and  practiced  his  profession 
in  New  England  cities  for  the  next  ten  years.  A  few  months 
after  "Thanatopsis"  was  published  in  the  "North  American 
Review,"  appeared  in  the  same  magazine  the  exquisite 
"Hymn  to  a  Waterfowl."  The  two  finest  expressions  of  his 
genius  were,  therefore,  the  product  of  his  early  youth.  The 
second  and  longer  period  of  Bryant's  life  began  in  1825  when 
he  abandoned  the  law  and  went  to  New  York  City  to  try  his 
fate  in  literature.  He  soon  became  connected  with  the  "  Eve- 
ning Post"  as  associate  editor,  and  in  1828  succeeded  to  the 
editorship  which  he  held  for  the  remaining  fifty  years  of  his 
life.  Under  his  influence  the  "Post"  became  a  power  both  in 
the  literary  and  political  life  of  America  and  Bryant  was 
more  and  more  absorbed  in  its  fortunes  and  less  able  to  de- 
tach himself  from  public  interests  to  the  more  intimate  ones 
which  form  the  inspiration  of  poetry.  He  continued  to  pub- 
lish volumes  of  verse,  but  the  early  books  contain  all  that  is 
important  of  his  work.  He  came  to  be  looked  upon  in  his 
venerable  and  beautiful  age  as  the  embodiment  of  all  that  is 
fine  and  worthy,  and  earned  the  distinction  of  being  called 
"  the  first  citizen  of  the  Republic." 

BUNNER,  HENRY  CUTLER.  Born  in  Oswego,  New  York, 
August  3,  1855;  died  in  Nutiey,  New  Jersey,  May  11,  1896. 
Mr.  Bunner  was  for  many  years  the  editor  of  "Puck,"  and 
wrote  much  in  lighter  vein,  but  had  a  lyric  gift  of  a  higher 
order  as  his  charming  and  delicate  "  Arcady  "  shows.  He  was 
always  the  artist  and  approached  every  theme  with  a  sure 
touch.  His  volumes  of  verse,  "Airs  from  Arcady  and  Else- 
where" and  "Rowan,"  were  combined  and  edited  by  his 
friend  Brander  Matthews  in  1896. 

BURROUGHS,  JOHN.  Born  in  Roxbury,  New  York,  April 
3,  1837.  The  foremost  naturalist  of  America,  Mr.  Bur- 
roughs is  also  one  of  the  foremost  men  of  letters  and  has  the 
distinction  of  having  been  one  of  the  first  to  recognize  and 
proclaim  the  genius  of  Walt  Whitman.  As  a  naturalist  Mr. 
Burroughs  has  long  maintained  supremacy  in  his  field,  and 
the  many  volumes  which  record  his  observations  are  valuable 
not  only  for  the  accuracy  of  their  information,  but  for  the 


BIOGRAPHICAL   NOTES  311 

philosophy  deduced  from  a  lifelong  association  with  nature. 
In  poetry  he  is  chiefly  known  for  the  lyric  "Waiting,"  writ- 
ten in  his  youth,  although  he  has  also  written  sympatheti- 
cally of  bird  life  and  other  phases  of  nature. 

BURTON,  RICHARD.  Born  in  Hartford,  Connecticut, 
March  14,  1859.  Educated  at  Trinity  College  and  Johns 
Hopkins  University.  He  entered  journalism  and  became 
literary  editor  of  the  "Hartford  Courant"  and  later  of  the 
Lothrop  Publishing  Company.  In  1900  he  became  the  head 
of  the  English  Department  of  the  University  of  Minnesota 
which  position  he  still  holds.  Dr.  Burton  has  published  many 
volumes  of  poetry  and  several  critical  works  upon  the  drama. 
Among  the  former  one  may  cite  as  most  representative 
"Dumb  in  June"  (1895);  "Lyrics  of  Brotherhood"  (1899); 
and  "Poems  of  Earth's  Meaning"  (1917). 

CARMAN,  BLISS.  Although  so  long  a  resident  of  the 
United  States  that  he  belongs  among  our  poets,  Bliss  Car- 
man was  born  at  Fredericton,  New  Brunswick,  April  15, 
1861.  He  was  educated  at  the  University  of  New  Bruns- 
wick, at  Harvard,  and  at  Edinburgh.  Like  most  poets  Mr. 
Carman  served  his  period  in  journalism,  being  office  editor 
of  the  "Independent"  from  1890  to  1892  and  editor  of  "The 
Chap  Book"  in  1894.  He  has,  however,  given  almost  his  sole 
allegiance  to  poetry  and  has  published  many  books,  chiefly 
of  nature,  interspersed  with  volumes  dealing  with  myth  or 
mysticism.  His  first  volume,  "Low  Tide  on  Grand  Pre," 
revealed  at  the  outset  his  remarkable  lyric  gift  and  his  sensi- 
tive feeling  for  nature.  In  collaboration  with  Richard  Hovey 
he  did  the  well-known  "Vagabondia  Books,"  which  intro- 
duced a  new  note  into  American  poetry,  and  appearing,  as 
they  did,  in  the  nineties,  formed  a  wholesome  contrast  to  some 
of  the  work  then  emanating  from  the  "Decadent  School"  in 
England.  Among  the  finest  of  Mr.  Carman's  volumes,  aside 
from  his  work  with  Richard  Hovey,  are  "Behind  the  Arras, 
A  Bix)k  of  the  Unseen"  (1895);  "Ballads  of  Lost  Haven" 
(1897);  "By  the  Aurelian  Wall,  and  Other  Elegies"  (1899); 
"The  Green  Book  of  the  Bards"  (1898);  "Pipes  of  Pan" 
(1902);  "Sappho:  One  Hundred  Lyrics"  (1903). 

CARRUTH,  WILLIAM  HERBERT.  Born  in  Osawatomie,  Kan- 
sas, April  5,  1859.  Educated  at  the  University  of  Kansas 
and  at  Harvard.  He  became  a  teacher  of  English  at  his 
alma  mater,  the  University  of  Kansas,  but  in  1913  accepted 
the  position  of  Professor  of  Comparative  Literature  and  head 
of  the  English  Department  at  Leland  Stanford  University, 
in  California,  where  he  remains.  His  poem,  "Each  in  His 
Own  Tongue,"  which  forms  the  title  of  his  volume  of  verse, 
is  widely  known. 


312  BIOGRAPHICAL   NOTES 

CARRYL,  GUY  WETMORE.  Born  in  New  York  City,  1873; 
died  there,  1904.  Educated  at  Columbia  University,  Mr. 
Carryl  served  in  several  journalistic  capacities  before  he  be- 
came the  Paris  representative  of  Harper  &  Brothers.  Author 
>f  "Fables  for  the  Frivolous"  (1898).  A  volume  of  his  poems 
yas  published  by  his  family  after  his  death. 

GARY,  ALICE.  Born  in  the  Miami  Valley,  Ohio,  1820; 
died  in  New  York  City  in  1871 .  "Poems  by  Alice  and  Phcebe 
Gary"  appeared  in  1850  and  had  in  their  day  a  wide  vogue. 
Soon  after  their  publication  the  sisters  came  to  New  York 
where  their  weekly  receptions  became  gathering  places  for 
the  writers  of  the  time.  Alice  Gary  was  the  more  prolific 
writer,  but  her  work  has  not  endured,  nor,  indeed,  has  that 
of  Phoebe  with  the  exception  of  her  poem,  "Nearer  Home," 
which  has  become  one  of  the  classic  hymns  of  our  literature. 

GARY,  PHCEBE.  Born  near  Cincinnati  in  1824;  died  in 
New  York  City  in  1871.  She  was  the  author  of  "Poems  and 
Parodies"  and  "Poems  of  Faith,  Hope,  and  Love." 

CAWEIN,  MADISON.  Born  in  Louisville,  Kentucky,  March 
23,  1865;  died  there,  December  7,  1915.  Educated  in  the 
public  schools  of  his  native  city.  He  began  writing  very 
early  and  published  his  first  book  of  verse,  "  Blooms  of  the 
Berry,"  when  but  twenty- two  years  of  age.  From  that  time 
until  his  death  in  1915  he  published  many  volumes  of  poetry 
inspired  chiefly  by  the  theme  of  nature.  "Complete  Poetical 
Works"  (5  volumes,  1907);  "New  Poems"  (London,  1909); 
"Poems,"  a  selection  from  the  " Complete  Works "  (1911), 
contain  his  finest  verse.  Mr.  Cawein  was  distinctly  the 
creator  of  his  own  field.  From  the  publication  of  his  first 
little  volume,  "Blooms  of  the  Berry,"  he  had  made  himself 
the  intimate,  almost  the  mystic,  comrade  of  nature.  Beauty 
was  his  religion  and  he  spent  his  life  learning  the  ways  and 
moods  of  nature  and  declaring  them  in  poetry  rich  in  imagina- 
tion. He  had  the  naturalist's  eagerness  for  truth  and  the 
accuracy  of  his  observation  gives  to  his  work  a  background 
that  adds  greatly  to  its  value. 

CHADWICK,  JOHN  WHITE.  Born  in  Marblehead,  Massa- 
chusetts, 1840;  died  in  Brooklyn,  New  York.  1904.  Mr. 
Chadwick  was  a  graduate  of  the  Harvard  Divinity  School 
and  for  many  years  pastor  of  the  Liberal  Second  Unitarian 
Society  of  Brooklyn. 

CHANNING,  WILLIAM  ELLERY.  Born  in  Boston,  1818; 
died  in  Concord,  Massachusetts,  1901.  A  nephew  of  the 
eminent  divine,  for  whom  he  was  named,  W'illiam  Ellery 
Channing,  after  graduation  at  Harvard  and  a  short  period 
of  journalistic  work  in  New  York  City,  settled  at  Concord 
where  he  was  in  intimate  touch  with  Thoreau,  Emerson,  and 


BIOGRAPHICAL   NOTES  313 

Alcott.  His  wife  was  a  sister  of  Margaret  Fuller.  Charming 
did  some  excellent  poetry,  although  he  was  one  of  the  group 
that  fell  under  the  ban  of  Poe. 

CHENEY,  JOHN  VANCE.  Born  in  Groveland,  New  York, 
December  2-),  1848.  Educated  at  Temple  Hill  Academy  in 
Geneseo,  New  York.  After  a  short  period  of  teaching  and  of 
practicing  law,  he  became  the  librarian  of  the  Free  Public 
Library  of  San  Francisco  and  held  this  position  from  1887  to 
1894  when  he  accepted  a  similar  one  at  the  Newberry  Library 
of  Chicago,  where  he  remained  until  1899.  Since  that  date 
he  has  resided  in  California  where  he  devotes  his  time  to 
literary  work. 

CLOUD,  VIRGINIA  WOODWARD.  Born  in  Baltimore,  Mary- 
land, 186-.  Educated  at  private  schools.  Miss  Cloud  is 
literary  editor  of  the  "Baltimore  News,"  and  is  a  writer  of 
stories,  criticism,  and  poetry. 

COATES,  FLORENCE  EARLE.  Born  in  Philadelphia,  Penn- 
sylvania, 185-.  Educated  at  the  Convent  of  the  Sacred  Heart 
in  Paris,  and  at  Brussels.  Mrs.  Coates's  work  is  always  dis- 
tinguished by  fineness  of  execution  and  elevation  of  mood. 
"Poems,"  Collected  Edition,  in  two  volumes  (1916),  con- 
tains all  of  her  representative  verse. 

CONE,  HELEN  GRAY.  Born  in  New  York  City,  March  8, 
1859.  Graduated  at  the  Normal  College  of  New  York  City 
in  1876.  Miss  Cone  has  been  Professor  of  English  Literature 
at  her  alma  mater  since  189*).  She  is  a  poet  of  strongly  indi- 
vidual gifts  and  has  given  to  our  literature  an  admirable  body 
of  verse. 

COOLBRITH,  INA  DONNA.  Born  near  Springfield,  Illinois, 
1 84-,  although  most  of  her  life  has  been  spent  in  California 
where  she  had  as  intimate  friends  Bret  Harte,  Joaquin  Mil- 
ler, and  others  who  made  memorable  the  literary  history  of 
that  State.  At  the  Panama  Exposition,  held  in  1915,  Miss 
Coolbrith  was  the  recipient  of  many  honors  from  the  State 
of  California.  Her  volumes  are,  "A  Perfect  Day,  and  Other 
Poems,"  and  "Songs  from  the  Golden  Gate  " 

CRANCH,  CHRISTOPHER  PEARSE.  Born  in  Alexandria,  Vir- 
ginia, 1813;  died  in  Cambridge,  Massachusetts,  1892.  After 
a  short  period  devoted  to  the  Unitarian  ministry  during 
which  he  was  identified  with  the  "Transcendentalists,"  he 
left  the  ministry  to  devote  himself  to  painting  and  spent 
several  years  in  study  abroad.  His  work  in  painting  was 
varied  by  the  writing  of  poetry  of  which  he  left  several  vol- 
umes. 

CURTIS,  GEORGE  WILLIAM.  Born  in  Providence,  Rhode 
Island,  February  24,  1842;  died  in  Staten  Island,  New  York, 
August  31,  1892.  One  of  the  youngest  of  the  idealists  who 


314  BIOGRAPHICAL   NOTES 

joined  the  Brook  Farm  Community  and  participated  in  the 
picturesque  life  of  that  period,  George  William  Curtis  re- 
mained throughout  his  life  an  idealist,  but  of  a  more  practical 
sort.  He  was  identified  with  many  movements  for  social  re- 
form, was  an  accomplished  public  speaker,  and  a  man  of 
great  charm  of  personality.  He  wrote  little  verse,  but  his 
prose  is  suffused  with  poetry.  His  fame  rests  chiefly  upon 
the  "Potiphar  Papers"  and  "Prue  and  I." 

DANA,  RICHARD  HENRY.  Born  in  Cambridge,  Massa- 
chusetts, August  5,  1787;  died  in  Boston,  February  2,  1879. 
One  of  the  foremost  men  of  letters  of  his  day,  Richard  Henry 
Dana  had  also  an  important  public  career.  He  was  involved 
in  the  "Student's  Rebellion"  of  1807  at  Harvard  and  left 
college  without  graduation,  but  entered  at  once  upon  the 
study  of  the  law  and  after  admission  to  the  bar  became  ac- 
tive in  politics  and  was  sent  to  the  Massachusetts  Legislature. 
Literature  became  more  attractive  to  him,  however,  than 
public  affairs  and  he  left  the  law  to  become  one  of  the  editors 
of  the  "North  American  Review."  He  was  a  critic  of  fine 
discrimination  and  was  one  of  the  first  in  America  to  appre- 
ciate Wordsworth. 

DANDRIDGE,  DANSKE.  Born  in  Copenhagen,  Denmark, 
186-.  Author  of  "Joy  and  Other  Poems"  (1888);  "Rose 
Brake"  (1890). 

DICKINSON,  EMILY.  Born  in  Amherst,  Massachusetts, 
1830;  died  there,  1886.  Purely  original  and  authentic,  the 
genius  of  Emily  Dickinson  is  distinct  from  that  of  any  other 
lyric  poet  of  America.  The  sparse,  epigrammatic  phrase,  and 
the  fact  that  the  briefest  lyric  exists  but  to  embody  some  bit 
of  philosophy,  combine  to  give  unique  distinction  to  all  that 
Emily  Dickinson  wrote.  Her  life  was  spent  in  great  seclusion 
in  her  native  town  of  Amherst  and  few  knew  that  she  h«:d 
written  poetry.  In  1862  she  so  far  overcame  her  resei  ye 
as  to  write  to  Thomas  Wentworth  Higginson,  enclosing  four 
poems  for  criticism.  Colonel  Higginson  was  not  slow  to  see 
that  a  poet  of  no  common  order  had  appealed  to  him  and  a 
correspondence  was  established  which  resulted  in  a  few  of 
the  poems  being  printed  during  her  lifetime  and  in  the  post- 
humous volume,  "  Poems  of  Emily  Dickinson,  edited  by  two 
of  her  Friends,  Thomas  Wentworth  Higginson  and  Mabel 
Loomis  Todd"  (1890).  A  second  series  was  edited  by  the 
same  friends  and  a  third,  "The  Single  Hound,"  by  her  niece, 
Martha  Gilbert  Dickinson  Bianchi. 

DORR,  JULIA  C.  R.  Born  in  Charleston,  South  Carolina, 
1825;  died  in  Rutland,  Vermont,  1913.  A  woman  of  great 
cultivation  and  charm,  Mrs.  Dorr  was  also  a  poet  of  no  in- 
considerable gift.  Her  long  life  spanned  a  period  of  great 


BIOGRAPHICAL  NOTES  315 

events  in  America,  in  which  she  bore  a  part,  and  her  work 
reflects  the  fi  ne  quality  of  her  nature.  Her  "  Complete  Poems  " 
were  brought  out  in  1892,  but  were  followed  in  1909  by  a  col- 
lection called  "Beyond  the  Sunset." 

DRAKE,  JOSEPH  RODMAN.  Born  in  New  York  City,  August 
17,  1795;  died  there  September  21,  1820.  The  short  life  of 
Joseph  Rodman  Drake  has  a  romantic  interest,  not  only 
for  the  charm  of  his  personality  and  his  association  with 
Fitz-Greene  Halleck  who  enshrined  his  memory  in  an  im- 
perishable lyric,  but  because  of  the  valor  with  which  he  met 
the  doom  that  overtook  him.  Dying  at  twenty-five,  after 
four  years'  struggle  with  tuberculosis,  Drake's  bright  spirit 
asserted  itself  to  the  last  and  the  series  of  witty  poems  which 
appeared  in  the  "Evening  Post"  under  the  title  of  "The 
Croakers,"  pleasantly  satirizing  local  celebrities  and  events, 
were  written  when  his  illness  was  already  far  advanced. 
Part  of  these  were  in  collaboration  with  Halleck.  Drake's 
long  poem,  "The  Culprit  Fay,"  with  its  charming  fancy,  was 
written  as  a  refutation  of  the  charge  that  American  rivers 
have  no  romantic  associations.  Drake's  early  boyhood 
was  a  struggle  with  poverty,  but  he  managed  to  secure  an 
education  and  fitted  himself  to  be  a  physician.  In  the  out- 
ward aspects  of  his  life  the  analogy  with  Keats  is  striking. 
Drake's  poems,  containing  his  patriotic  classic,  "The  Ameri- 
can Flag,"  were  published  in  1836  by  his  daughter  under  the 
title  of  "The  Culprit  Fay,  and  Other  Poems." 

DUNBAR,  PAUL  LAURENCE.  Born,  in  Dayton,  Ohio,  1872; 
died  in  1906.  Of  African  blood,  Paul  Laurence  Dunbar  did 
very  significant  and  important  work  in  revealing  the  negro 
life  and  character.  He  was  a  natural  lyrist  and  his  poems 
have  tenderness,  humor,  and  pathos,  as  well  as  racial  charm. 
Dunbar  spent  a  short  time  in  newspaper  work  and  was  then 
given  a  position  in  the  Library  of  Congress,  which  allowed 
him  more  leisure  for  his  art.  His  best  collections  are  "  Lyrics 
of  Lowly  Life"  (1896),  and  "Lyrics  of  the  Hearthside" 
(1899). 

EMERSON,  RALPH  WALDO.  Born  in  Boston,  May  25,  1803; 
died  in  Concord,  Massachusetts,  April  27,  1882.  Descended 
from  generations  of  ministers,  and  with  the  Puritan  tradi- 
tions strong  within  him,  Emerson  belonged  to  what  Holmes 
termed  the  "Brahmin  caste"  of  New  England.  He  was  but 
a  child  when  his  father  died,  and  his  boyhood  was  passed 
under  conditions  which  necessitated  more  or  less  of  self- 
denial.  At  Harvard,  where  he  entered  when  but  thirteen, 
he  earned  his  lodgings  by  holding  the  post  of  "President's 
Freshman"  —  an  official  messenger  boy.  Later  he  served  as 
a  waiter  at  the  College  Commons,  thus  demonstrating  at  the 


316  BIOGRAPHICAL  NOTES 

outset  his  practical  qualities.  After  graduation  he  taught  in 
a  private  school  conducted  by  his  brother,  in  Boston,  com- 
bining this  work  with  studying  for  the  ministry,  to  which  he 
was  ordained  in  1829.  The  same  year  he  married  Miss  Ellen 
Tucker,  who  lived  but  a  short  time.  Several  of  his  early 
lyrics  addressed  to  his  wife,  or  in  memory  of  her,  show  the 
beauty  of  her  character  and  personality.  Not  long  after  his 
wife's  death  Emerson  resigned  his  pastorate  of  the  Second 
Church  in  Boston  and  also,  because  of  his  broadening  views, 
withdrew  from  the  ministry  as  an  active  vocation.  He  fre- 
quently preached  in  the  succeeding  years,  but  would  never 
accept  a  call  to  a  permanent  pastorate.  The  lecture  platform 
became  his  pulpit,  one  from  which  his  luminous  spirit  shed 
its  far-reaching  influence  for  nearly  fifty  years.  After  resign- 
ing his  ministry,  Emerson  went  abroad  and  met  many  of  the 
great  writers  of  the  time.  In  Florence  he  visited  Landor,  in  his 
villa  on  the  olive  slopes  below  Fiesole.  In  London  he  met 
Coleridge,  still  enchanting  his  disciples.  He  journeyed  into 
the  Lake  Country  and  visited  Wordsworth,  who  recited  his 
poems  to  him,  pacing  back  and  forth  in  the  garden  at  Rydal 
Mount;  but  most  important  of  all,  he  met  Carlyle,  with 
whom  he  formed  a  lifelong  friendship  and  one  of  mutual 
helpfulness.  The  correspondence  of  Emerson  and  Carlyle, 
extending  over  a  long  period,  is  indispensable  to  the  fullest 
understanding  of  each.  After  returning  from  abroad,  Emer- 
son settled  at  Concord  and  soon  after  married  Miss  Lidian 
Jackson.  Here,  with  Thoreau,  Channing,  Alcott,  and  others 
as  his  neighbors,  he  began  the  productive  period  of  his  life. 
He  had  published  no  books  up  to  this  time,  but  in  the  follow- 
ing year  appeared  "Nature,"  not  widely  acclaimed,  but 
recognized  at  once  by  the  discerning.  This  was  followed  by 
"The  American  Scholar,"  an  address  delivered  at  Harvard, 
containing  a  plea  for  intellectual  independence  and  freedom 
from  European  domination.  Lowell,  still  a  student  at  Har- 
vard, records  the  excitement  attending  the  event — "What 
crowded  and  breathless  aisles,  what  windows  clustering  with 
eager  heads,  what  enthusiasm  of  approval,  what  grim  silence 
of  dissent!"  From  this  period  volumes  of  essays  followed 
each  other  at  intervals  of  three  or  four  years.  They  cover 
every  phase  of  human  conduct,  every  expression  of  the  intel- 
lectual and  spiritual  life,  and  place  Emerson  among  the  great 
thinkers  and  seers  of  the  world.  It  would  be  impossible  in  a 
brief  sketch  to  take  up  particular  phases  of  Emerson's  phi- 
losophy, but  perhaps  the  two  greatest  and  most  typical  essays 
are  "Self-Reliance"  and  "The  Over-Soul,"  and  as  one  may 
measure  a  complete  circle  from  a  segment  of  it,  one  may, 
from  these  two  essays  alone,  gain  a  deep  insight  into  the  phi' 


BIOGRAPHICAL  NOTES  317 

losophy  of  Emerson.  His  entire  work,  including  the  several 
volumes  of  essays,  the  two  longer  books,  "Representative 
Men"  and  "English  Traits,"  and  his  poetry,  forms  an  edi- 
tion of  eleven  volumes.  While  it  may  seem  disproportionate 
that  only  one  of  these  is  poetry,  so  completely  does  it  contain 
the  essence  of  Emerson's  thought,  and  with  such  crystalliza- 
tion, such  finality,  is  it  presented,  that  it  would  not  be  ex- 
treme to  predict  that  this  one  volume  may  outlast  the  ten  of 
prose.  The  "Threnody,"  written  after  the  death  of  his  little 
son,  is  a  poem  of  great  feeling  and  beauty,  but  for  the  true, 
the  typical,  flavor  of  Emerson,  one  must  turn  to  the  more 
epigrammatic  work,  to  that  which  packs  into  a  few  lines 
something  of  eternal  import. 

FAWCETT,  EDGAR.  Born  in  New  York  City,  May  26,  1847; 
died  in  London,  1904.  Educated  at  Columbia  University. 
Mr.  Fawcett  gave  his  entire  time  to  literature,  producing 
many  novels  and  several  volumes  of  poetry.  For  some  years 
prior  to  his  death,  he  resided  in  London. 

FIELD,  EUGENE.  Born  in  St.  Louis,  Missouri,  September 
3,  1850;  died  in  Chicago,  Illinois,  November  4,  1895.  Field 
received  his  early  education  at  Amherst  and  later  at  Williams 
and  Knox  Colleges  and  the  University  of  Missouri.  He 
started  his  public  life  as  a  journalist,  working  upon  papers  in 
St.  Louis,  St.  Joseph,  Kansas  City,  and  Denver  until  he  be- 
came associated  with  the  "Chicago  Daily  News,"  where  he 
remained  until  his  death.  Before  going  to  Chicago  he  had 
done  chiefly  light  and  humorous  work,  but  after  forming  a 
permanent  connection  with  the  "Daily  News"  he  turned  his 
attention  to  poetry  and  prose  of  a  higher  quality.  In  1889 
he  published  "A  Little  Book  of  Western  Verse,"  which  not 
only  established  him  firmly  as  a  poet,  but  contained  many 
songs  of  child  life  which  are  among  the  choicest  in  English 
literature.  His  fame  will  continue  to  rest  largely  upon  this 
book,  although  it  was  supplemented  by  several  others  almost 
equally  fine. 

FIELDS,  ANNIE.  Born  in  Boston,  1834;  died  there,  1915. 
Mrs.  Fields  was  the  wife  of  James  T.  Fields,  of  the  famous 
publishing  house  under  whose  imprint  appeared  the  early 
work  of  Emerson,  Longfellow,  Lowell,  Whittier,  Holmes,  and 
other  New  England  poets.  From  her  intimate  association 
with  this  group,  Mrs.  Fields  did  some  delightful  volumes  of 
reminiscence  and  biography,  notably  "Authors  and  Friends" 
(1896)  and  personal  studies  of  WThittier,  Harriet  Beecher 
Stowe,  and  James  T.  Fields.  Her  books  of  verse  are  "  Under 
the  Olives"  (1880)  and  "The  Singing  Shepherd"  (1895). 

FINCH,  FRANCIS  MILES.  Born  in  Ithaca,  New  York,  1S.J7; 
died,  1907.  Although  Francis  Miles  Finch  graduated  from 


318  BIOGRAPHICAL   NOTES 

Yale  University  in  1849  as  the  poet  of  las  class,  he  quickly 
became  absorbed  in  the  practice  of  the  law  in  his  native  city 
of  Ithaca,  where  he  remained  until  1881  when  he  was  elected 
to  the  New  York  Court  of  Appeals.  In  1892  he  became  dean 
of  the  Law  School  of  Cornell  University.  His  early  promise 
as  a  poet  was  fulfilled  only  in  "The  Blue  and  The  Gray" 
which  was  published  in  the  "Atlantic  Monthly"  in  1867  and 
has  become  one  of  the  classics  of  the  Civil  War. 

FRENEAU,  PHILIP.  Born  in  New  York  City,  1752;  died 
near  Monmouth,  New  Jersey,  1832.  The  earliest  of  our 
poets  to  display  a  lyric  gift  capable  of  sustained  exercise, 
Philip  Freneau  left  a  body  of  poetic  work  important  for 
its  formative  influence  upon  his  immediate  successors  and 
notable  in  itself,  when  considered  from  the  period  which 
produced  it.  Freneau's  work  was  chiefly  done  prior  to  the 
Romantic  Movement  in  England,  before  lyric  poetry  had  re- 
ceived the  great  impetus  and  liberation  which  came  with  that 
movement  and  before  poetic  form  had  been  released  from  its 
classic  restraints.  There  was  no  poetic  school  in  America,  no 
master  to  emulate,  no  atmosphere  to  stimulate  a  young  poet. 
Freneau  was  a  pioneer,  and  one  is  surprised  at  the  fresh  note 
which  still  gives  a  modern  touch  to  some  of  his  lyrics.  His 
personal  life  was  active  and  adventurous  and  spanned  the 
great  period  of  the  Revolutionary  War,  the  War  of  1812,  and 
other  events  of  moment  in  our  history.  For  several  years 
Freneau  followed  the  sea,  making  voyages  to  the  West  In- 
dies and  other  ports,  often  in  command  of  merchant  vessels. 
In  1780  his  ship  was  captured  and  all  on  board  were  taken 
prisoners.  Freneau  has  recorded  the  adventure  in  a  poem  of 
four  cantos,  "The  British  Prison  Ship."  After  leaving  sea 
life  Freneau  became  a  journalist. 

GARLAND,  HAMLIN,  born  in  West  Salem,  Wisconsin,  1860. 
Mr.  Garland  is  chiefly  known  as  a  novelist,  although  he  has 
written  some  stirring  poetry  of  the  great  West.  His  early 
youth  was  spent  in  teaching  in  Illinois  and  in  Boston  at  the 
School  of  Oratory,  but  during  this  period  he  was  also  en- 
gaged in  literary  work  which  he  has  pursued  exclusively  since 
that  date.  His  volume  of  poems,  "Prairie  Soiigs,"  was  pub- 
lished in  1893. 

GILDER,  RICHARD  WATSON,  born  in  Bordentown,  New 
Jersey,  February  8,  1844;  died  in  New  York  City,  1909.  Mr. 
Gilder  was  one  of  the  great  editors  of  America,  having  been 
connected  with  the  "Century  Magazine"  (formerly  "Scrib- 
ner's  Monthly")  from  its  founding  in  1870  until  his  death 
about  forty  years  later.  He  was  associate  editor  during  the  in- 
cumbency of  J.  G.  Holland,  but  at  his  death,  in  1881,  became 
editor-in-chief.  When  very  young,  during  the  Confederate 


BIOGRAPHICAL   NOTES  319 

invasion  of  Pennsylvania,  he  served  in  Landis's  Philadelphia 
Battery,  and  had  also  a  short  period  of  studying  law  before 
he  entered  journalism.  In  his  later  years  Mr.  Gilder  was  ac- 
tive in  many  social  reforms  and  never  permitted  literature  to 
detach  him  from  life.  As  a  poet  his  work  has  a  fine,  if  some- 
times austere,  quality.  In  the  lyric,  however,  he  was  free 
and  spontaneous  and  his  best  work  is  in  a  group  of  his  songs. 

GOING,  CHARLES  BUXTON.  Born  in  Westchester,  New 
York,  18G3.  Educated  at  Columbia  University.  Mr.  Going 
is  a  poet  who  combines  scientific  and  literary  pursuits,  being 
editor  of  the  "Engineering  Magazine"  of  New  York.  His 
volumes  of  poetry  are,  "Summer  Fallow"  (1892);  "Star- 
Glow  and  Song"  (1909). 

GUINEY,  LOUISE  IMOGEN.  Born  in  Boston,  January  7, 
1861.  Educated  in  the  private  schools  of  Boston  and  the 
Sacred  Heart  Convent  in  Providence.  Her  father,  Patrick 
Guiney,  was  a  brigadier-general  in  the  Civil  War  and  Miss 
Gainey's  work  was  much  influenced  by  this  background  of 
association.  The  symbolism  of  her  poetry  is  frequently  drawn 
from  battle  or  from  knight-errantry,  as  in  "The  Wild  Ride," 
"The  Kings,"  "The  Vigil-at-Arms,"  "The  Knight  Errant," 
"Memorial  Day,"  etc.  Valor,  transmuted  to  a  spiritual  qual- 
ity, may,  indeed,  be  said  to  be  the  keynote  of  Miss  Guiney 's 
work.  Add  to  this  a  mystical  element,  best  illustrated  in  her 
poem,  "Beati  Mortui,"  a  Celtic  note,  shown  so  exquisitely 
in  her  "Irish  Peasant  Song,"  and  one  has  the  more  obvious 
characteristics  of  poetry  that,  whatever  its  theme,  is  always 
distinguished  and  individual.  "Happy  Ending"  (190J) 
contains  what  she  wishes  to  preserve  of  her  work. 

HALL,  GERTRUDE.  Born  in  Boston,  186-.  Educated  in 
Italy.  Of  recent  years  Miss  Hall  has  devoted  herself  almost 
entirely  to  fiction  and  to  French  translation,  having  made 
an  excellent  rendering  of  the  work  of  Paul  Verlaine  and  of 
Rostand's  "Cyrano  ds  Bergerac"  and  " Chantecler."  Her 
own  poetry  includes  "Verses"  (1890);  "Allegretto"  (1894); 
and  "The  Age  of  Fairy  Gold"  (1899). 

HALLECK,  FITZ-GREENE.  Born  in  Guildford,  Connecticut, 
July  8,  1790;  died  there,  November,  1867.  Halleck  is  in- 
separably identified  with  Joseph  Rodman  Drake  with  whom 
he  collaborated  in  the  satirical  "Croaker"  papers,  and  whose 
memory  he  celebrated  in  a  lyric  which  is  Halleck' s  own  best 
warrant  to  fame.  Unlike  his  friend  Drake,  whose  short  life 
was  spent  in  literary  associations,  Halleck  was  in  business 
pursuits  or  in  clerical  work  during  the  greater  part  of  his  life. 
At  twenty-one,  he  came  to  New  York  City  and  entered  the 
banking  house  of  John  Jacob  Astor,  who,  at  his  death,  pen- 
sioned Halleck  and  made  it  possible  for  him  to  retire  to  his 


320  BIOGRAPHICAL  NOTES 

native  Guildford  and  spend  his  last  years  in  the  enjoyment 
of  much  that  had  been  denied  him  in  youth.  His  creative 
period,  however,  was  chiefly  over  and  the  work  which  per- 
petuates his  name  was  done  either  in  the  years  of  his  asso- 
ciation with  Drake  or  soon  after.  "Marco  Bozarris,"  best 
known  to  the  people,  was  first  printed  by  Bryant  in  the  "  New 
York  Review." 

HARDY,  ARTHUR  SHERBURNE.  Born  in  Andover,  Massa- 
chusetts, August  13,  1847.  Educated  at  West  Point  and 
graduated  in  1868  with  the  rank  of  second  lieutenant.  He 
remained  in  the  army  but  a  short  time,  however,  and  became 
a  teacher,  holding  successively  the  positions  of  Professor  of 
Civil  Engineering  at  Iowa  College  and  of  Mathematics  at 
Dartmouth.  Later  he  entered  the  diplomatic  service  and  was 
in  turn  Minister  to  Persia  and  to  Greece.  He  is  the  author  of 
"Francesca  di  Rimini,"  a  poem  (1878),  and  of  several  novels. 

HARTE,  FRANCIS  BRET.  Born  in  Albany,  New  York,  Au- 
gust 25,  1839;  died  in  Camberley,  England,  May  6,  1902. 
The  life  of  Bret  Harte  spanned  the  picturesque  period  of  the 
building-up  of  the  great  West,  particularly  of  California  in 
the  years  immediately  succeeding  the  rush  to  the  gold  fields. 
Harte  was  still  a  lad  when  he  went  to  California  and  though 
he  had  himself  received  but  a  common-school  education,  he 
began  life  in  California  as  a  teacher,  leaving  this  occupation 
for  mining,  printing,  carrying  express,  or  whatever  work  he 
cculd  obtain,  until  he  formed  an  editorial  connection  with  the 
"Golden  Era"  of  San  Francisco.  This  gave  him  the  oppor- 
tunity to  develop  and  exercise  his  original  talent  and  his 
stories,  sketches,  and  poems  soon  began  to  attract  attention. 
He  edited  in  turn  "  The  Calif ornian."  a  weekly  paper  in  which 
his  "Condensed  Novels"  were  published  and  "The  Over- 
land Monthly,"  whose  second  number  was  distinguished  by 
"The  Luck  of  Roaring  Carnp."  During  the  four  years  in 
which  he  was  connected  with  the  "Overland  Monthly" 
much  of  his  most  characteristic  work,  including  the  humorous 
poem,  "Plain  Talk  from  Truthful  James,"  appeared  in  its 
pages.  From  this  period  the  course  of  his  life  changed  com- 
pletely. He  removed  to  the  Atlantic  Coast  and  in  1878  was  . 
appointed  United  States  Consul  to  Crefeld,  Germany.  Two 
years  later  he  was  transferred  to  the  consulate  at  Glasgow, 
Scotland,  where  he  remained  five  years  and  upon  his  retire- 
ment took  up  a  permanent  residence  in  England.  Most  of  the 
work  upon  which  his  fame  rests  was  done  prior  to  his  entry 
into  the  diplomatic  service.  The  pioneer  life  of  the  West 
lives  in  his  stories  and  poems  with  their  sharply  delineated 
types,  their  racy  humor,  their  sentiment  and  pathos.  His 
stories  and  poems  are  now  collected  into  complete  editions. 


BIOGRAPHICAL  NOTES  321 

HAY,  JOHN.  Born  in  Salem,  Indiana,  October  8,  1838;  died 
in  Newbury,  New  Hampshire,  July  1,  1905.  One  of  the 
greatest  diplomats  and  statesmen  in  the  last  half  of  the  nine- 
teenth century,  John  Hay  was  also  a  cultivated  man  of  let- 
ters and  a  poet  of  a  native,  though  limited,  vein.  Educated 
at  Brown  University  and  admitted  to  the  bar  in  1861,  he 
obeyed  the  call  of  public  events  and  after  serving,  not  only  as 
secretary  to  Lincoln,  but  as  his  adjutant  and  aide-de-camp, 
v/ent  to  the  front  and  won  successive  ranks,  to  that  of  col- 
onel. After  a  period  in  minor  diplomatic  service  at  Paris, 
Vienna,  and  Madrid,  he  returned  to  America  and  became  as- 
sociated with  the  editorial  staff  of  the  "  New  York  Tribune," 
to  which  he  contributed  from  time  to  time  his  "  Pike  County 
Ballads."  He  reentered  public  service  and  was  Assistant 
Secretary  of  State  under  President  Hayes.  It  was  not,  how- 
ever, until  1897,  when  he  was  sent  as  Ambassador  to  Great 
Britain,  that  his  high  qualities  as  a  diplomat  were  given  their 
full  opportunity.  He  was  recalled  to  enter  President  McKin- 
ley's  Cabinet  in  1898,  as  Secretary  of  State,  where  his  wide 
experience  was  valuable  during  the  Spanish-American  War. 
He  was  retained  in  this  high  office  by  President  Roosevelt  and 
occupied  it  at  the  time  of  his  death. 

HAYNE,  PAUL  HAMILTON.  Born  in  Charleston,  South 
Carolina,  January  1,  1830;  died  in  Grovetown,  Georgia,  July 
6,  1886.  The  early  youth  of  Paul  Hamilton  Hayne  was  spent, 
like  that  of  many  poets,  in  journalism,  although  he  was  edu- 
cated for  a  lawyer.  At  the  outbreak  of  the  Civil  War,  he  en- 
tered the  Confederate  army  and  became  a  colonel.  Broken 
in  health  by  service  in  the  war  and  his  home  having  been 
destroyed,  he  moved  to  "Copse  Hill"  in  the  pine  barrens 
near  Augusta,  Georgia,  where  he  lived  until  his  death. 
Hayne  long  held  the  honor  of  being  the  foremost  Southern 
poet  and  was  widely  known  and  loved. 

HIGGINSON,  ELLA.  Born  in  Council  Grove,  Kansas,  186-. 
Mrs.  Higginson  is  the  author  of  several  volumes  of  stories 
and  poems.  "When  the  Birds  Go  North  Again"  is  perhaps 
her  best-known  book  of  verse. 

HIGGINSON,  MARY  THACHER.  Born  in  Machias,  Maine, 
1844.  Married  in  1879  to  Colonel  Thomas  Wentworth  Hig- 
ginson, author  of  "  Seashore  and  Prairie,  Stories  and  Sketches  " 
(1876),  and,  in  collaboration  with  Colonel  Higginson,  "Such 
«as  They  Are,"  a  book  of  poems  (1893). 

HIGGINSON,  THOMAS  WENTWORTH.  Born  in  Cambridge, 
Massachusetts,  December  22,  1823;  died  there,  1911.  Minis- 
ter, reformer,  soldier,  historian,  critic,  and  poet.  Colonel  Hig- 
ginson touched  life  at  many  points,  both  in  action  and  con- 
templation. He  maintained  always  the  happy  balance  between 


BIOGRAPHICAL  NOTES 


these  phases  of  experience  and  neither  permitted  the  lure  of 
scholarship  and  literature  to  draw  him  from  life  nor  the  de- 
mands of  life  to  rob  him  of  his  sanctuary  in  the  arts.  The 
ripeness  of  culture,  the  enrichment  of  great  friendships,  the 
association  with  historic  events,  gave  to  his  genial  age  a 
particular  mellowness  and  beauty.  His  youth  was  similar 
to  that  of  Emerson.  He  graduated  at  Harvard,  became  a 
teacher,  and  entered  the  liberal  ministry.  Here,  however, 
the  parallel  ends,  since  Colonel  Higginson's  life  in  the  next 
few  years  was  actively  spent  in  the  anti-slavery  agitation. 
In  the  Civil  War,  after  the  Emancipation  Proclamation,  he 
was  colonel  of  the  first  colored  regiment  of  the  Federal  army 
and  served  in  the  South  Carolina  and  Florida  campaigns. 
After  the  war  he  retired  to  Cambridge  where  his  later  years 
were  spent  in  writing  and  lecturing. 

HOFFMAN,  CHARLES  FENNO.  Born  in  New  York  City, 
1806;  died  in  Harrisburg,  Pennsylvania,  1884.  The  life  of 
Charles  Fenno  Hoffman  was  spent  in  active  journalism  in 
which  he  held  many  important  positions.  He  was  educated  at 
Columbia  and  practiced  law  for  a  short  time  in  New  York 
City.  He  suffered  a  mental  breakdown,  in  1849,  and  was 
obliged  to  spend  the  rest  of  his  life  in  retirement.  He  lives 
chiefly  by  the  stirring  ballad,  "Monterey." 

HOLLAND,  JOSIAH  GILBERT.  Born  in  Belchertown,  Massa- 
chusetts, July  24,  1819;  died  in  New  York  City,  October  12, 
1881.  J.  G.  Holland,  as  he  was  commonly  called,  was  widely 
read  in  his  own  day,  particularly  his  narrative  poems,  "Bit- 
ter Sweet,"  "Katrina,"  and  "The  Mistress  of  the  Manse," 
which  satisfied  the  combined  taste  for  poetry  and  fiction. 
He  has  perhaps  a  more  enduring  monument  in  the  "  Century 
Magazine"  (founded  by  him  as  "Scribner's  Monthly") 
which  he  edited  until  his  death.  He  was  educated  in  medicine 
and  was  a  practicing  physician  until  he  left  this  field  in  1849 
to  become  associated  with  the  "Springfield  Republican" 
where  he  remained  on  the  editorial  staff  until  I860.  The 
"Republican"  printed  "Timothy  Titcomb's  Letters"  which 
won  instant  popularity.  "Garnered  Sheaves,"  Holland's 
collected  poems,  were  published  in  1873. 

HOLMES,  OLIVER  WENDELL.  Born  in  Cambridge,  Massa- 
chusetts, August  29,  1809;  died  in  Boston,  October  7,  1894. 
The  remarkable  vitality  and  versatility  of  Dr.  Holmes  en- 
abled him  through  a  long  life  to  pursue  a  scientific  and  an 
artistic  profession  side  by  side  and  to  distinguish  himself 
equally  in  both.  Educated  at  Andover  and  at  Harvard,  his 
first  study  was  of  the  law  which  he  abandoned  for  medicine. 
He  became  known  as  one  of  the  investigating  minds  of  the 
medical  profession  and  held  successively  the  chair  of  Anat- 


BIOGRAPHICAL  NOTES  323 

omy  and  Physiology  at  Dartmouth  College  and  at  Harvard 
University,  retaining  the  latter  for  nearly  forty  years.  One 
cannot  define  Dr.  Holmes,  however,  in  terms  of  cold  science. 
He  was  the  scholar,  the  wit,  the  litterateur,  the  urbane  and 
exquisite  gentleman,  in  short,  the  unique  product  of  New 
England  culture  when  it  still  possessed  a  distinctive  flavor. 
It  is  certain  that  Dr.  Holmes  will  live  through  the  tradition 
of  his  personality  quite  as  long  as  through  his  work,  or  it  may 
be  more  just  to  say  that  the  reflection  of  his  personality  in 
his  work  gives  to  it  a  human  charm  that  constitutes  a  great 
part  of  its  literary  value.  So  much  of  his  work  was  written  for 
occasion,  so  much  of  it  was  frankly  ephemeral,  that  it  needs 
much  sifting  before  one  comes  to  the  little  group  of  poems 
that  carry  their  warrant  of  perpetuity.  In  prose,  the  genial 
and  rich  spirit  of  Holmes  was  at  its  best  in  "The  Autocrat 
of  the  Breakfast  Table."  These  essays,  published  in  the 
"Atlantic  Monthly"  in  its  early  years,  were  followed  by  the 
less  successful  series  of  "The  Professor  at  the  Breakfast  Ta- 
ble" and  "The  Poet  at  the  Breakfast  Table."  Between  the 
last  two  series  appeared  the  novels,  negligible  in  a  final  ap- 
praisal of  his  work,  but  popular  in  their  own  day,  of  "Elsie 
Venner"  and  "The  Guardian  Angel." 

HOVEY,  RICHARD.  Born  in  Normal,  Illinois,  May  4,  1861; 
died  February  24,  1900.  He  received  his  early  education  at 
Dartmouth  College,  which  he  afterward  celebrated  in  several 
of  his  best-known  poems.  In  collaboration  with  Bliss  Car- 
man he  did  the  well-known  "  Vagajbondia  Books"  —  "Songs 
from  Vagabondia"  (1894);  "More  Songs  from  Vagabondia" 
(1895)  "Last  Songs  from  Vagabondia"  (1900)  — books 
whose  freshness  and  charm  immediately  won  them  a  place  in 
public  favor  that  time  has  not  lessened.  Aside  from  his  work 
with  Mr.  Carman  and  his  lyric  collection,  "Along  the  Trail" 
(1898),  Hovey  did  a  remarkable  group  of  poetic  dramas  built 
upon  the  Arthurian  legsnd  and  issued  separately  under  the 
titles,  "The  Quest  of  Merlin:  A  Masque,"  "The  Marriage  of 
Guenevere:  A  Tragedy,"  "The  Birth  of  Galahad:  A  Roman- 
tic Drama,"  "Taliesin:  A  Masque."  These  were  but  part  of 
the  dramas  projected  in  the  cycle  and  a  fragment  of  the 
next  to  be  issued,  "The  Holy  Grail,"  was  published,  with 
explanatory  notes  of  the  whole  series,  in  1907.  The  dramas 
stand  for  a  dramatic  achievement  of  a  high  order,  and  con- 
tain poetry  of  great  beauty,  reaching  at  times,  in  the  lyric 
masque  of  "Taliesin,"  an  almost  consummate  expression. 
Richard  Hovey  was,  indeed,  both  in  lyric  and  dramatic  work, 
a  poet  of  rare  endowment  and  his  early  death  was  a  distinct 
loss  to  American  letters. 

HOWE,  JULIA  WARD.    Born  in  New  York  City,  May  27, 


324  BIOGRAPHICAL   NOTES 

;819;  died  in  Boston,  1910.  With  the  exception  of  her  one 
great  poem,  "The  Battle  Hymn  of  the  Republic,"  Julia 
Ward  Howe  will  be  remembered  rather  as  a  constructive 
reformer  than  as  a  poet.  From  the  time  of  her  marriage,  in 
1843,  to  Dr.  Samuel  G.  Howe,  of  Boston,  she  was  actively 
identified  with  all  great  public  movements  of  her  time.  "The 
Battle  Hymn  of  the  Republic"  was  written  in  1861  when 
Mrs.  Howe,  in  company  with  the  Secretary  of  War,  visited 
the  military  camps  near  Washington.  When  the  review  was 
over,  the  soldiers  thronged  about  the  camp  singing  "John 
Brown's  Body."  Mrs.  Howe,  as  she  afterward  related,  was 
greatly  stirred  by  the  incident,  but  impressed  by  the  inade- 
quacy of  the  words  to  so  fine  a  martial  air.  That  night  she 
awakened  with  tbe  first  stanza  of  "The  Battle  Hymn  of  the 
Republic"  complete  in  her  mind  and  before  morning  the  en- 
tire poem  had  taken  shape. 

HOWELLS,  WILLIAM  DEAN.  Born  in  Martin's  Ferry,  Ohio, 
March  1,  1837..  Mr.  Howells  has  long  been  the  acknowledged 
master  of  American  fiction  and  the  creator  in  America  of 
what  may  be  termed  the  naturalistic  movement  in  this  art. 
His  early  life  followed  the  line  of  development  of  many  an 
ambitious  boy.  His  father  was  an  editor  at  Hamilton,  Ohio, 
and  it  was  as  a  typesetter  on  his  father's  paper  that  Howells 
did  his  first  work.  After  serving  a  general  journalistic  ap- 
prenticeship, at  the  age  of  twenty-one  he  became  one  of  the 
editors  of  the  Columbus,  Ohio,  "State  Journal."  Two  years 
later,  with  the  Ohio  poet,  John  Piatt,  he  made  his  first  in- 
cursion into  verse  with  "Poems  of  Two  Friends."  The  dip- 
lomatic service  next  called  him  and  from  1861  to  1865  he 
served  as  United  States  Consul  to  Venice.  These  delightful 
years,  whose  record  is  preserved  in  "Venetian  Days"  and 
"Italian  Journeys,"  were  sources  of  enrichment  for  Mr. 
Howells's  future  work.  After  returning  to  America  he  be- 
came editor  of  the  "Atlantic  Monthly,"  a  position  which  he 
filled  for  ten  years.  In  poetry  Mr.  Howells  has  published 
little,  but  in  fiction  he  has  been  a  voluminous  writer  and  sev- 
eral of  his  novels,  such  as  "The  Rise  of  Silas  Lapham," 
"Annie  Kilburn,"  and  "A  Hazard  of  New  Fortunes,"  have 
become  classics. 

HUTCHINSON,  ELLEN  MACKAY  (MRS.  ROYAL  CORTISSOZ) 
Born  in  Caledonia,  New  York,  Mrs.  Cortissoz  was  for  many 
years  connected  with  the  "New  York  Tribune."  She  has 
written  little  of  late,  but  in  the  eighties  and  early  nineties  her 
work  was  among  the  choicest  of  the  period  and  her  lyrics  and 
ballads  of  colonial  life  were  particularly  charming. 

INGALLS,  JOHN  JAMES.  Born  in  Middleton,  Massachu- 
setts, 1833;  died  in  1900.  Mr.  Ingalls  was  a  well-known  law- 


BIOGRAPHICAL   NOTES  325 

yer  and  journalist,  but  became  active  in  politics  and  served 
for  many  years  in  the  United  States  Senate.  He  is  remem- 
bered for  the  sonnet,  "Opportunity." 

JACK-SON,  HELEN  HUNT.  Born  Helen  Maria  Fiske,  in  Am- 
her.?t,  Massachusetts,  October  18,  1831;  died  August  12, 
1335.  Married  in  early  youth  to  Captain  Edward  Hunt,  of 
the  United  States  Army,  she  became  interested  in  the  prob- 
lem -of  the  Indian,  and  in  1881,  after  the  death  of  her  hus- 
band and  her  marriage  to  William  S.  Jackson,  of  Colorado 
Springs,  she  published  the  stirring  arraignment,  "A  Century 
of  Dishonor."  This  brought  her  the  appointment  to  examine 
the  condition  of  the  Mission  Indians  of  California,  a  position 
whose  literary  fruit  was  the  beautiful  story  of  "Ramona." 
In  poetry  Mrs.  Jackson  published,  under  her  initials,  "H. 
H.,"  a  volume  in  1870  and  "Sonnets  and  Lyrics"  in  1876. 

JEWETT,  SOPHIE.  Born  in  Moravia,  New  York,  1861; 
died,  1909.  Miss  Jewett  was  Associate  Professor  of  English 
Literature  at  Wellesley  College.  She  had  a  lyric  gift  of  great 
delicacy  and  her  early  death  was  a  loss  to  American  poetry, 
Her  collected  work  was  issued  after  her  death. 

JOHNSON,  ROBERT  UNDERWOOD.  Born  in  Washington, 
D.C.,  January  12,  1853.  Mr.  Johnson  was  identified  for 
many  years  with  the  "Century  Magazine"  as  associate  edi- 
tor and,  upon  the  death  of  Richard  Watson  Gilder,  succeeded 
to  the  editorship,  which  he  held  for  several  years.  He  was 
actively  identified  also  with  the  movement  to  secure  inter- 
national copyright  and  was  decorated  by  the  French  and  the 
Italian  Governments  for  his  service  in  this  work.  His  col- 
lected poems  were  published  in  1902,  and  an  enlarged  edition 
in  1903. 

KENYON,  JAMES  B.  Born  in  Frankfort,  New  York,  1858. 
Mr.  Kenyon  was  formerly  in  the  Methodist  Episcopal  minis- 
try, but  has  spent  his  recent  years  in  writing. 

LANIER,  SIDNEY.  Born  in  Macon,  Georgia,  February  3, 
18i2;  died  in  Lynn,  North  Carolina,  September  7,  1881. 
Sidney  Lanier  was  one  of  those  fine  spirits  who  come  among 
us  now  and  then  to  reaffirm  the  beautiful  and  then  pass,  leav- 
ing a  quickened  sense  of  the  value  of  living.  From  the  outset 
Lanier  was  impelled  by  his  enthusiasms  and  at  eighteen 
enlisted  in  the  Confederate  army  and  served  until  nearly  the 
end  of  the  war,  when  he  was  taken  prisoner  while  trying  to 
run  a  blockade.  Five  months  of  captivity  at  Point  Lookout 
no  doubt  sowed  the  seeds  of  the  tubercular  affection  which 
developed  and  caused  his  early  death.  After  his  release 
from  the  army  he  taught  in  Alabama,  and  studied  and  prac- 
ticed law  with  his  father  in  his  native  city  of  Macon,  but 
pursuits  of  this  kind  could  not  long  hold  one  like  Lanier 


323  BIOGRAPHICAL   NOTES 

whose  passion  was  altogether  for  the  arts.  Fortunately  he 
was  a  trained  musician  and  upon  abandoning  the  law,  be- 
came first  flute  in  the  Peabody  Symphony  Concerts  of  Balti- 
more, where  he  spent  the  last  few  years  of  his  life.  Lanier's 
theories  of  music  and  poetry  attracted  wide  attention  and 
he  was  appointed  to  a  lectureship  in  Johns  Hopkins  Univer- 
sity where  he  delivered  a  series  of  talks,  afterwards  pub- 
lished in  the  volume  "The  Science  of  English  Verse."  This 
has  long  been  an  authoritative  book  in  its  field.  As  a  poet  Lan- 
ier  first  won  wide  recognition  by  his  poem  "Corn,'  pub- 
lished in  " Lippincott's  Magazine,"  but  "The  Marshes  of 
Glynn"  is  the  finest  and  most  sustained  work  from  his  pen 
and  best  illustrates  the  individuality  of  his  technique.  He 
has  left  also  a  group  of  lyrics  of  enduring  beauty. 

LARCOM,  LUCY.  Born  in  Beverly,  Massachusetts,  1826; 
died  in  Boston,  1893.  Lucy  Larcom  attracted  the  attention 
of  Whittier  by  contributions  to  the  paper  he  was  then  editing, 
and  it  was  largely  through  Whittier' s  encouragement  that 
she  became  known  as  a  poet.  Her  early  youth  was  spent 
working  in  the  mills  at  Lowell,  but  from  1866  to  1874  she 
was  assistant  editor  of  "Our  Young  Folks."  She  published 
several  volumes  of  verse,  collected  into  a  complete  edition 
in  1885. 

LATHROP,  GEORGE  PARSONS.  Born  in  Oahu,  Hawaiian 
Islands,  August  25,  1851 ;  died  in  New  York  City,  April  19, 
1898.  Mr.  Lathrop  was  educated  in  New  York  and  at  Dres- 
den, Germany.  In  1871  he  married  Rose  Hawthorne,  daugh- 
ter of  Nathaniel  Hawthorne.  He  was  assistant  editor  of  the 
"Atlantic  Monthly,"  1875-77,  and  filled  other  editorial  posi- 
tions. His  volumes  of  poetry  include  "Rose  and  Rooftree" 
(1875);  and  "Dreams  and  Days"  (1892).  He  also  wrote 
several  novels  and  "A  Study  of  Hawthorne"  (1876). 

LAZARUS,  EMMA.  Born  in  New  York  City,  1849;  died 
there,  1887.  Emma  Lazarus,  born  of  Portuguese- Jewish  an- 
cestry, is  chiefly  identified  with  the  work  which  she  did  for 
her  own  race,  although  her  poetic  talents,  finely  individual 
and  marked  by  a  certain  classical  austerity,  were  expressed 
in  many  beautiful  poems  upon  other  themes.  The  persecu- 
tion of  the  Jews  in  Russia  inspired  her  drama,  "The  Dance 
to  Death."  A  complete  collection  of  her  poetical  work  was 
published,  with  a  memoir,  the  year  after  her  death. 

LEARNED,  WALTER.    Born  in  New  London,  Connecticui 
1S47.   Author  of  " Between  Times"  (1889) ;  "Ten  Tales  fron. 
Coppee,"  translations  (1890);  editor  of  "A  Treasury  of  Amer- 
ican Verse"  (1898). 

LE  GALLIENNE,  RICHARD.  Born  in  Liverpool,  England, 
January  20,  1866.  He  was  already  a  well-known  poet,  novel- 


BIOGRAPHICAL   NOTES  327 

ist,  and  critic  when  he  took  up  his  residence  in  the  United 
States.  In  each  of  these  fields  Mr.  Le  Gallienne  has  achieved 
conspicuous  success  and  it  would  be  difficult  to  say  what  phase 
of  his  literary  work  should  take  precedence.  In  poetry,  with 
which  we  are  chiefly  concerned,  he  has  given  us  several  vol- 
umes distinguished  by  that  delicacy  and  sensitive  feeling  foi 
beauty  which  characterize  all  of  his  work.  Of  these  the  best- 
known  are:  "English  Poems,"  "New  Poems,"  and  "The 
Lonely  Dancer."  In  addition  to  these  volumes,  Mr.  Le 
Gallienne  has  made  an  admirable  paraphrase  of  the  "Rubai- 
yat"  of  Omar  Khayyam  and  of  a  group  of  odes  from  the 
"Divan"  of  Hafiz. 

LELAND,  CHARLES  GODFREY.  Born  in  Philadelphia,  Penn- 
sylvania August  15,  1824- ;  died  in  Florence,  Italy,  March  20, 
1903.  Chiefly  known  as  the  author  of  "Hans  Breitmann's 
Ballads,"  Charles  Godfrey  Leland  had  not  only  a  rich  vein 
of  humor,  but  was  a  scholar  of  wide  cultivation  and  actively 
identified  with  movements  to  further  the  knowledge  of  the 
arts  on  the  part  of  the  people.  He  was  educated  at  Prince- 
ton and  supplemented  his  work  there  with  study  at  German 
and  French  universities.  In  his  early  youth  he  practiced  law, 
but  literary  work  drew  him  into  other  channels,  and  in  1869 
he  took  up  his  residence  in  London  and  gave  himself  chiefly 
to  the  study  of  folk-lore. 

LITCHFIELD,  GRACE  DENIO.  Born  in  New  York  City, 
1849.  Spent  most  of  her  youth  in  Europe.  A  complete  edi- 
tion of  her  poems  was  published  in  1913. 

LONGFELLOW,  HENRY  WADSWORTH.  Born  in  Portland, 
Maine,  February  27,  1807;  died  in  Cambridge,  Massachu- 
setts, March  24,  1882.  Regarded  during  his  lifetime,  both 
in  England  and  America,  as  our  foremost  poet,  Longfellow  is 
still  read  more  commonly  by  the  people  than  any  of  his  con- 
temporaries. One  could  easily  name  qualities  in  which  each 
of  the  others  excelled  him.  The  philosophy  of  Emerson,  the 
humor  of  Lowell,  the  magic  of  Poe,  —  all  were  qualities  out- 
side the  genius  of  Longfellow;  yet  this  genius  expressed  itself 
within  its  own  field  with  no  less  of  personality.  His  poems  do 
not  startle  by  magic  of  phrase,  but  they  are  beautiful  as  the 
common  light  is  beautiful,  and  shine  by  something  of  the  same 
purity  and  transparency.  Longfellow  was,  indeed,  an  un- 
failing artist  and  the  technical  ease  and  faultless  taste  of  his 
work  render  it  a  pleasure  to  read  even  after  one  has  exhausted 
Its  content.  In  the  sonnet  he  had  supreme  mastery  and 
"The  Divina  Commedia,"  "Giotto's  Tower,"  "Nature," 
and  other  poems  in  this  form  will  survive  the  inevitable  win- 
nowing of  his  verse.  Longfellow's  narrative  gift,  native  and 
spontaneous  as  it  was,  will  scarcely  influence  the  final  wppre* 


BIOGRAPHICAL   NOTES 


ciation  of  his  work,  yet  his  narratives  have  value  as  historical 
pictures  and  "Hiawatha,"  artistically  in  a  class  apart  from 
the  others,  will  remain  as  an  idyl  of  Indian  life.  In  personal- 
ity Longfellow  embodied  the  ideal  of  the  poet,  the  scholar, 
and  the  gentleman.  Educated  at  Bowdoin  College,  where  he 
had  as  classmates  Nathaniel  Hawthorne  and  Franklin 
Pierce,  he  showed  a  particular  aptitude  for  modern  lan- 
guages and  after  his  graduation  spent  four  years  in  France, 
Spain,  Italy,  and  Germany.  After  his  return  he  occupied 
the  chair  of  Modern  Languages  at  Bowdoin,  resigning  after 
six  years  to  fill  the  same  position  at  Harvard.  This  chair  was 
held  by  Longfellow  for  nearly  twenty  years,  when  he  re- 
signed to  give  himself  entirely  to  literary  work.  In  his  early 
youth  Longfellow  married  Miss  Mary  Potter,  of  Portland, 
who  died  four  years  later  at  Rotterdam.  Some  years  after, 
he  married  Miss  Frances  Appleton,  with  whom  he  had  several 
children  and  lived  a  life  of  ideal  companionship,  until  her  tragic 
death  which  occurred  in  1861  at  their  home,  the  beautiful  old 
Craigie  House  in  Cambridge.  Mrs.  Longfellow  was  burned 
to  death  while  melting  wax  to  seal  a  letter.  This  event  greatly 
saddened  the  closing  years  of  the  poet,  but  perhaps  it  added 
to  the  benign  and  beautiful  spirit  which  distinguished  him. 
During  one  of  his  late  visits  to  England  the  degree  of  LL.D. 
was  conferred  upon  him  by  Cambridge  University  and  that 
of  D.C.L.  by  Oxford.  He  was  greatly  beloved  and  admired 
in  England  and  his  bust  was  placed  in  Westminster  Abbey. 
Aside  from  his  own  work  in  poetry,  Longfellow  did  an 
admirable  translation  of  Dante's  "Divine  Comedy"  and 
made  many  translations  from  Spanish,  French,  and  other 
tongues. 

LOWELL,  JAMES  RUSSELL.  Born  in  Cambridge,  Massa- 
chusetts, February  22,  1819;  died  there,  August  12,  1891. 
More  closely  in  touch  with  the  life  of  his  own  day  than  any 
of  his  poet  contemporaries  and  with  a  wider  range  of  sym- 
pathy with  public  affairs,  Lowell  was  at  the  same  time  pre- 
eminently the  scholar  and  man  of  letters,  happily  combining 
the  creative,  critical,  and  social  qualities  of  his  nature.  He 
began  writing  when  very  young  and  published  his  first  book, 
"A  Year's  Life,"  in  1841,  the  year  after  leaving  the  Harvarr 
Law  School.  Other  books  of  verse  followed  at  comparatively 
short  intervals,  but  none  made  for  Lowell  a  wide  recognition 
until  he  published  the  "Biglow  Papers"  in  which  his  racy 
vein  of  humor  and  satire  found  full  vent.  The  first  series, 
directed  against  the  Mexican  War,  began  to  appear  in  1846; 
the  second  series,  published  in  the  sixties,  pertained  to  the 
Civil  War.  Both  were  typically  American  and  gained  a  wide 
audience.  In  1855  Lowell  succeeded  Longfellow  as  Professor 


BIOGRAPHICAL  NOTES  329 

of  Modern  Languages  and  Belles-Lettres  at  Harvard  Uni- 
versity. During  the  same  period  he  spent  several  years  as 
editor  of  the  "Atlantic  Monthly"  and  later  as  one  of  the  edi- 
tors of  the  "North  American  Review,"  in  which  much  of  his 
finest  critical  work  appeared.  Volumes  of  poetry  and  criti- 
cism, succeeding  each  other  rapidly,  gave  proof  of  the  fecun- 
dity of  Lowell's  mind  and  the  rich  storehouse  from  which  he 
drew.  "Fireside  Travels"  (1864);  "Among  My  Books" 
(1870);  "My  Study  Windows"  (1871);  and  "Among  My 
Books,  Second  Series,"  alternated  with  volumes  of  verse. 
A  neAv  outlet  for  the  versatile  talents  of  Lowell  now  presented 
itself  and  he  was  sent  as  United  States  Minister  to  Spain,  a 
post  which  he  filled  so  ably  that  in  three  years  he  was  trans- 
ferred to  the  Court  of  St.  James  in  London.  Here  his  culture, 
his  charm  of  personality,  and  his  public  gifts  combined  to  ren- 
der his  service  among  the  most  distinguished  in  the  history 
of  American  diplomacy.  After  his  return  to  America  he 
lived  quietly  at  "Elmwood,"  his  beautiful  home  in  Cam- 
bridge, but  did  not  cease  to  take  an  interest  in  public  affairs, 
always  approached  from  the  broadest  standpoint.  Lowell 
was  in  the  true  sense  a  citizen  of  the  world  and  the  noblest 
qualities  met  in  him.  The  fervor  of  the  "Commemoration 
Ode"  reveals  his  spirit.  In  poetry  his  moods  were  various. 
He  alone  among  the  New  England  poets  possessed  humor, 
whimsicality,  and  the  gift  of  kindly  satire.  His  work  in  these 
moods,  however,  should  not  obscure  that  in  others,  and  some 
beautiful  lyrics  remain  among  his  permanent  offerings. 

LOWELL,  MARIA  WHITE.  Born  in  Watertown,  Massachu- 
setts, 1821;  died  in  Cambridge,  Massachusetts,  in  1853. 
Married  in  1844  to  James  Russell  Lowell,  upon  whose  early 
work  she  has  left  a  marked  influence,  Mrs.  Lowell,  by  her 
keen  and  active  mind  and  charming  personality,  drew  about 
her  a  large  circle  of  friends.  Edward  Everett  Hale  in  his 
literary  reminiscences  has  written  delightfully  of  her.  A  pri- 
vately printed  edition  of  her  poems  was  issued  in  1853. 

LUDERS,  CHARLES  HENRY.  Born  in  Philadelphia,  Pennsyl- 
vania, 1858;  died  there,  1891.  The  early  death  of  Charles 
Henry  Liiders  was  greatly  to  be  regretted,  as  his  verse,  pub- 
lished under  the  title  of  "The  Dead  Nymph  and  Other 
Poems,"  in  the  year  following  his  death,  proved  what  a  fine 
gift  was  lost  to  the  world. 

MALONE,  WALTER.  Born  in  De  Soto  County,  Mississippi, 
1836;  died  in  Memphis,  Tennessee,  1915.  While  his  epic, 
"De  Soto,"  is  a  well-sustained  work,  it  is  by  the  brief  lyric, 
"Opportunity,"  that  V>'altor  Malonc  will  live  in  the  public 
heart.  Mr.  Malone  was  educated  at  the  University  of  Mis- 
sissippi, and  took  up  the  practice  of  the  law  in  Memphis, 


330  BIOGRAPHICAL   NOTES 

Tennessee.  He  had  risen  to  the  position  of  judge,  an  office 
which  he  had  held  for  several  years  prior  to  his  death. 

MARKHAM,  EDWIN.  Born  in  Oregon  City,  Oregon,  April 
23,  1852.  Removed  at  an  early  age  to  California,  where  his 
childhood  was  spent  upon  a  ranch  in  herding  sheep  and  rid- 
ing the  ranges  after  the  cattle.  During  his  boyhood  he  at- 
tended school  but  three  months  in  the  year,  but  later  studied 
at  San  Jose  Normal  School  and  the  University  of  California. 
After  leaving  the  University,  Mr.  Markham  became  a 
teacher  in  California  and  was  principal  and  superintendent 
of  several  schools  until  1899,  when  he  sprang  suddenly  into 
fame  by  the  publication  in  the  "San  Francisco  Examiner"  of 
his  poem  "The  Man  With  the  Hoe."  This  poem,  crystalliz- 
ing as  it  did  the  spirit  of  the  time,  and  emphasizing  one's 
obligation  to  Society,  became  the  impulse  of  the  whole  social 
movement  in  poetry,  a  movement  which  largely  prevailed 
during  the  early  years  of  the  twentieth  century.  After  the 
great  success  of  "The  Man  With  the  Hoe,"  Mr.  Markham 
removed  from  California  to  New  York  City,  where  he  has 
since  been  engaged  in  literary  work. 

McGAFFEY,  ERNEST.  Born  in  London,  Ohio,  1861.  For 
several  years  a  resident  of  Chicago,  where  he  practiced  law, 
Mr.  McGaffey  varied  his  legal  occupation  with  the  writing 
of  poetry.  He  is  the  author  of  "Poems  of  Gun  and  Rod" 
(1892)  and  "Poems"  (1895). 

MILLER,  JOAQUIN  (CINCINNATUS  HEINE).  Born  in  Wa- 
bash  District,  Indiana,  November  10,  1841;  died  at  "The 
Heights,"  above  San  Francisco,  California,  1913.  The  pic- 
turesque career  of  Joaquin  Miller  surpasses  any  romance  that 
came  from  his  hand.  When  a  lad  he  tramped  from  his  home 
in  Oregon  to  the  Sacramento  Valley  where  gold  fields  were 
being  opened  and  did  whatever  he  could  turn  his  hand  to 
about  the  camps.  He  lived  familiarly  with  the  Indians  and 
passed  through  many  adventures  in  returning  to  his  home  in 
Oregon.  Here  he  studied  law,  which  he  practiced  for  some 
time  in  Canyon  City,  and  became  a  judge  of  Grant  County. 
In  1870  he  went  to  London  with  the  manuscript  of  "Songs 
of  the  Sierras."  Here  he  met  Browning,  Arnold,  and  other 
poets  of  the  period  and  created  a  sensation  in  conventional 
London  by  his  romantic  personality.  After  his  return  to 
America  he  spent  some  time  in  journalistic  work  in  Washing- 
ton, D.C.,  but  left  it  for  California  where  he  established 
himself  in  a  beautiful  home  on  "The  Heights"  above  the 
Golden  Gate.  Save  for  occasional  excursions,  such  as  his 
trip  to  the  Klondike,  his  remaining  years  were  spent  at  this 
home.  Joaquin  Miller  had  great  power  to  invoke  the  wild 
and  majestic  aspects  of  nature,  and  while  he  was  often  the 


BIOGRAPHICAL   NOTES  331 

victim  of  his  facility,  at  his  best  he  was  a  poet  of  rare  gifts 
and  unexcelled  in  his  field  as  the  interpreter  of  Western  life 
and  landscape. 

MITCHELL,  SILAS  WEIR.  Born  in  Philadelphia,  Pennsyl- 
vania, February  15,  1820;  died  there,  1914.  S.  Weir  MitcheL 
had  been  for  many  years  a  well-known  physician  before  he 
turned  to  literature.  Several  volumes  of  fiction  came  from 
his  pen  before  he  attracted  attention  by  the  publication  of 
his  admirable  historical  novel,  "  Hugh  Wynne,  Free  Quaker." 
His  first  collection  of  verse,  "The  Hill  of  Stones,  and  Other 
Poems,"  was  not  published  until  1882  and  he  never  became 
a  prolific  writer  of  poetry.  He  followed  tradition  closely,  but 
his  work,  in  its  careful  execution,  had  the  virtue  of  its  quali- 
ties and  several  of  his  poems  have  a  classical  fineness. 

MONROE,  HARRIET.  Born  in  Chicago,  Illinois,  186-. 
Educated  at  the  Visitation  Academy,  Georgetown,  D.C., 
Miss  Monroe  was  chosen  to  write  the  "Columbian  Ode"  for 
the  dedication  of  the  World's  Columbian  Exposition  in 
Chicago.  Of  recent  years  she  has  edited  "  Poetry,"  a  periodi- 
cal devoted  exclusively  to  the  publication  of  verse.  This  was 
the  first  of  the  small  magazines,  afterwards  so  numerous, 
that  grew  out  of  the  twentieth-century  revival  of  poetry  in 
America.  Miss  Monroe  is  the  author  of  "  You  and  1 "  (1914), 
and  co-editor  with  Alice  Corbin  Henderson,  of  "The  New 
Poetry,"  an  anthology  (1917). 

MOODY,  W'ILLIAM  VAUGHN.  Born  in  Spencer,  Indiana, 
July  8,  1869;  died  in  Colorado  Springs,  October  17,  1910. 
Moody  was  educated  at  Harvard  and  in  1895  became  Assis- 
tant Professor  of  English  in  the  University  of  Chicago,  where 
he  remained  until  1903.  His  period  of  teaching,  however, 
was  relieved  by  several  trips  abroad,  on  one  of  which  he 
visited  Greece  and  re-read  the  entire  body  of  Greek  tragedy 
with  the  background  of  the  scenes  which  produced  it.  The 
Greek  influence,  dominant  in  his  work,  reached  its  finest 
expression  in  "The  Fire-Bringer,"  a  poetic  drama  of  great 
beauty  and  philosophical  depth.  This  drama  is  one  of  a  tril- 
ogy of  which  it  is  the  first  member,  the  second  being  "The 
Masque  of  Judgment,"  and  the  third,  "The  Death  of  Eve." 
The  last  was  in  process  of  writing  at  Moody's  death  and  but 
fragments  of  it  have  been  published.  This  trilogy  would 
alone  be  sufficient  to  place  Moody  among  the  major  poets 
had  he  not  left  a  body  of  lyric  poetry  of  equal  distinction. 

MORSE,  JAMES  HERBERT.  Born  in  Hubbardstown,  Massa- 
chusetts, 1841.  Educated  at  Harvard.  Founder  of  the 
Morse  and  Roberts  Collegiate  School  in  New  York  City. 
Author  of  "Summer  Haven  Songs"  (1886). 

MORSE,  SIDNEY  HENRY.    Born  in  Rochester,  New  York, 


332  BIOGRAPHICAL   NOTES 

October  3,  1833.  While  still  in  his  boyhood  Mr.  Morse  was 
obliged  to  leave  school  to  learn  the  stone-cutter's  trade,  but 
love  of  study  spurred  him  to  supplement  his  scant  schooling 
by  wide  reading,  and  when,  at  twenty  vears  of  age,  he  made 
the  acquaintance  of  the  celebrated  Unitarian  clergyman, 
Moncure  D.  Conway,  he  was  inspired  to  prepare  himself  also 
for  the  Unitarian  ministry.  He  became  the  pastor  of  a  Uni- 
tarian church  at  Haverhill,  Massachusetts,  but  left  this 
some  time  later  to  edit  and  publish  "The  Radical,"  a  liberal 
Unitarian  organ.  Mr.  Morse  had  also  artistic  ability  and  did 
some  notable  work  in  sculpture,  a  bust  of  Emerson  in  the 
Second  Church  of  Boston  and  of  Dr.  Channing  in  Arlington 
Street  Church,  are  among  his  best-known  pieces. 

MOULTON,  LOUISE  CHANDLER.  Born  in  Pomfret,  Connecti- 
cut, 1835;  died  in  Boston,  August  10,  1908.  Educated  at  a 
seminary  in  Troy,  New  York,  and  married  at  an  early  age 
to  William  Moulton,  a  publisher  of  Boston,  Louise  Chandler 
Moulton  by  the  charm  of  her  personality  and  her  poetic  gifts 
established  for  herself  an  important  place  in  the  social  and 
literary  life  of  her  time.  Her  home  in  Boston  was  the  gather- 
ing-place of  elect  spirits  in  literature  and  the  arts,  and  a 
pageant  of  American  poets,  from  the  early  New  England 
group  to  those  who  were  to  create  the  twentieth-century 
renaissance,  had  passed  through  her  doors.  In  England  Mrs. 
Moulton  had  no  less  intimate  touch  with  the  writers  of  her 
period  and  numbered  among  her  friends  Browning,  Arnold, 
the  Rossettis,  Swinburne,  and  other  great  Victorian  poets. 
She  was  also  the  close  friend  of  the  blind  poet,  Philip  Bourke 
Marston,  whose  literary  executor  she  became.  Mrs.  Moul- 
ton's  sonnets  are  models  of  this  form,  which  she  handled 
with  the  utmost  ease  and  beauty.  Her  complete  work  in 
poetry  was  issued  soon  after  her  death,  with  an  introduction 
by  her  life-long  friend,  Harriet  Prescott  SpofFord. 

MURRAY,  ADA  FOSTER  (MRS.  HENRY  MILLS  ALDEN). 
Born  in  Virginia  in  1856.  Married  Kenton  C.  Murray.  Again 
married,  several  years  after  his  death,  to  Henry  Mills  Alden, 
editor  of  "Harper's  Magazine,"  to  which  she  was  a  contribu- 
tor. Mrs.  Alden's  first  verses,  written  during  her  girlhood, 
were  accepted  by  William  Cullen  Bryant,  then  editor  of  the 
"New  York  Evening  Post."  Although  she  has  contributed 
to  the  leading  magazines,  she  has  published  but  one  collection 
of  poetry,  "Flower  O'  the  Grass"  (1910). 

O'HARA,  THEODORE.  Born  in  Danville,  Kentucky,  1820; 
died  in  Guerryton,  Alabama,  1867.  Theodore  O'Hara  was 
distinctly  the  soldier  poet,  having  served  in  the  Mexican  War 
and  in  the  Confederate  army  during  the  Civil  War.  His  fame 
rests  upon  the  noble  poem,  "The  Bivouac  of  the  Dead," 


BIOGRAPHICAL  NOTES  333 

written  as  a  memorial  to  the  KentucHans  who  fell  at  Buena 
Vista. 

O'REILLY,  JOHN  BOYLE.  Born  in  Dowth  Castle,  County 
Meath,  Ireland,  June  28,  1844;  died  in  Hull,  Massachusetts, 
August  10,  1890.  The  career  of  John  Boyle  O'Reilly  was 
more  romantic  than  fiction  and  had  in  it  all  the  essentials  of 
drama.  His  early  youth  in  Ireland  was  closely  bound  up  with 
the  fortunes  of  that  always-distracted  country.  He  entered 
journalism  at  Drogheda,  a  town  near  his  birthplace,  and 
threw  the  influence  of  his  fiery  pen  into  the  cause  of  Irish 
revolt.  The  Fenian  Society  sent  him  to  England  as  an  agent, 
but  he  was  speedily  arrested  and  condemned  to  death,  a 
sentence  which  was  at  the  last  moment  commuted  to  penal 
servitude  in  Australia.  After  enduring  this  for  a  year  he 
escaped  in  a  boat  and  was  picked  up  by  an  American  whaling 
vessel  and  finally  landed  at  Philadelphia.  This  was  in  1869 
when  O'Reilly  was  but  twenty-five  years  old.  From  this 
time  to  his  death,  which  occurred  in  the  prime  of  his  powers, 
he  was  a  great  force  in  the  movement  for  justice  to  Ireland 
and  through  the  "Boston  Pilot,"  which  he  edited  for  many 
years,  he  championed  not  only  all  liberal  movements  for  his 
native,  but  also  for  his  adopted,  country.  He  was  greatly 
beloved  for  his  winning  personality  and  his  fervid  Irish  tem- 
perament, and  at  his  death  a  shvtue  by  Daniel  Chester  French 
was  erected  to  him  in  Boston 

PARSONS,  THOMAS  WILLIAM.  Born  in  Boston,  August  18, 
1819;  died  in  Scituate,  Massachusetts,  September  3,  1892. 
Thomas  William  Parsons  was  an  admirable  classical  scholar 
and  a  student  and  translator  of  Dante.  His  fame  as  a  poet 
rests  largely  upon  his  splendid  "Lines  on  a  Bust  of  Dante," 
although  he  did  much  other  verse  of  a  high  order.  Educated 
at  the  Boston  Latin  School  and  at  home,  he  went  in  early 
youth  to  Italy  and  there,  during  several  years  cf  study,  made 
a  metrical  translation  of  the  first  ten  cantos  of  the  "  Inferno." 

PECK,  SAMUEL  MINTURN.  Born  in  Tuscaloosa,  Alabama, 
1854.  Graduated  at  the  University  of  Alabama  and  took  a 
medical  course  in  New  York  City.  He  returned  to  his  native 
town  and  varied  the  practice  of  medicine  with  farming  and 
literature  chiefly  in  lighter  vein. 

PERCIVAL,  JAMES  GATES.  Born  in  Berlin,  Connecticut, 
September  15,  1795;  died  in  Hazel  Green,  Wisconsin,  May 
2,  1856.  After  graduation  at  Yale  University,  James  Gates 
Percival  became  a  physician,  and  practiced  in  Charleston  and 
in  the  United  States  recruiting  service,  but  left  this  profession 
for  the  study  of  geology  and  prepared  valuable  reports  on 
the  geological  formations  of  Connecticut  and  Wisconsin. 
His  complete  work  in  poetry  was  published  in  1859. 


334  BIOGRAPHICAL   NOTES 

PERRY,  NORA.  Born  in  Dudley,  Massachusetts,  188-; 
died  there,  1896.  Nora  Perry  is  best  known  for  her  poem, 
"After  the  Ball,"  although  "The  Love  Knot"  and  other 
verses  quite  as  popular  in  their  day  still  find  their  way  into 
anthologies.  These  poems,  however,  with  their  mid-Victor- 
ian sentimentality,  do  not  represent  Miss  Perry  at  her  best 
and  we  have  chosen  a  lyric  of  a  finer  quality. 

PIATT,  JOHN  JAMES.  Born  in  James  Mill,  now  Milton, 
Indiana,  March  1,  1835;  died  in  Ohio,  1917.  Mr.  Piatt,  who 
was  a  close  friend  of  W.  D.  Howells,  published  in  company 
with  him  his  first  volume  of  verse,  "Poems  of  Two  Friends." 
This  book  is  now  sought  by  collectors  as  being  the  first  work 
of  each  of  these  poets.  Mr.  Piatt's  life  was  largely  passed  in 
public  service.  He  was  in  the  Treasury  Department  at  Wash- 
ington during  the  Civil  War;  librarian  of  the  House  of  Rep- 
resentatives for  several  years  following,  and  United  States 
Consul  to  Cork,  from  1882  to  1894.  Many  of  his  poems  were 
in?phed  by  life  in  Ireland.  He  married  Sarah  Morgan 
Bryan,  of  Kentucky,  also  a  poet,  and  throughout  their  lives 
they  were  voluminous  writers,  publishing  volumes  of  verse 
together  as  well  as  many  separate  collections. 

PIATT,  SARAH  MORGAN  BRYAN.  Born  in  Lexington,  Ken- 
tucky, 1836.  Mrs.  Piatt's  work  was  widely  read  in  its  own 
period  and  a  few  charming  lyrics  will  keep  it  alive. 

PIERPONT,  JOHN.  Born  in  Litchfield,  Connecticut,  1785; 
died  in  Medford,  Connecticut,  1866.  Pierpont  was  one  of 
the  earliest  of  our  poets,  his  birth  antedating  that  of  Bryant. 
Most  of  his  life  was  spent  in  the  Unitarian  ministry,  although 
he  had  passed  through  a  period  of  teaching  and  practicing 
law.  He  was  one  of  the  earliest  abolitionists  and  resigned  his 
charge  at  Hollis  Street  Church,  Boston,  as  early  as  1845  be- 
causes  of  being  in  advance  of  his  congregation  on  this  and 
other  public  questions.  At  the  outbreak  of  the  Civil  WTar, 
although  already  seventy-six  years  old,  he  volunteered  as 
an  army  chaplain,  but  was  transferred,  owing  to  his  feeble 
health,  to  the  Treasury  Department  where  he  served  until 
his  death  in  1866. 

PINKNEY,  EDWARD  COATE.  Born  in  London,  England, 
1802;  died  in  Baltimore,  Maryland,  1828.  A  distinct  and 
beautiful  poetic  gift  was  quenched  in  the  early  death  of  Ed- 
ward Coate  Pinkney,  whose  slender  volume  of  "Poems,' 
published  in  1825,  bespoke  the  birthright  of  pong.  Pinkney 
was  the  son  of  the  American  Minister  to  Great  Britain,  Wil- 
liam Pinkney,  and  at  the  age  of  fouiteen  entered  the  United 
States  Navy,  resigning  eight  years  later.  For  the  remaining 
four  years  of  his  life  he  studied  and  practiced  law  at  Balti- 
more, but  delicate  health  made  him  unable  to  cope  with  the 


BIOGRAPHICAL  NOTES  335 

needs  of  his  profession  and  his  early  passing  from  life  was 
saddened  by  a  sense  of  frustration. 

POE,  EDGAR  ALLAN.  Born  in  Boston,  January  19,  1809; 
died  in  Baltimore,  Maryland,  October  7,  1849.  Most  magi- 
cal and  creative  of  our  American  poets,  Poe  was  also  the  only 
one  whose  personal  life  was  filled  with  romance  and  tragedy. 
The  lives  of  his  New  England  contemporaries  seemed  to  be 
presided  over  by  some  benign  spirit,  but  that  of  Poe,  almost 
from  the  outset,  was  troubled  and  painful.  His  parents  were 
actors,  both  of  whom  died  during  his  early  infancy  and  Poe 
was  adopted  by  Mr.  John  Allan,  a  wealthy  tobacco  merchant 
of  Richmond,  Virginia.  While  still  a  child  he  was  taken  to 
England  and  was  placed  for  five  years  in  a  school  near  Lon- 
don. After  returning,  in  1820,  he  spent  the  years  before  he 
entered  the  University  of  Virginia  in  other  schools  at  Rich- 
mond and  distinguished  himself  in  athletics  and  writing 
verses  as  well  as  in  his  scholarship.  At  the  university  also  his 
work  was  satisfactory;  but  lacking,  from  his  still  extreme 
youth,  the  self-discipline  to  resist  the  temptations  of  college 
life,  he  fell  into  the  use  of  stimulants  which  worked  disas- 
trously for  his  future.  His  foster-father  refused  to  honor  his 
debts,  took  him  from  the  university  and  put  him  to  work  in 
his  own  counting-room  at  Richmond.  This  was  not  at  all  to 
Poe's  mind  and  he  soon  ran  away,  to  Boston,  enlisting  in  the 
regular  army  under  the  alias  of  "Edgar  Perry."  One  is  re- 
minded of  a  similar  escapade  in  the  life  of  Coleridge,  who  ran 
away  from  college  and  enlisted  in  the  English  dragoons.  But 
whereas  Coleridge  was  discovered  in  a  few  months,  Poe  re- 
mained nearly  two  years  and  performed  his  work  as  a  soldier 
so  well  that  he  was  made  sergeant-major.  This  record  no 
doubt  influenced  Mr.  Allan  to  place  him  as  a  cadet  at  West 
Point,  a  step  which  would  probably  have  proved  advisable 
had  it  not  been  that  the  youthful  cadet  had  already  been 
touched  with  the  divine  madness  of  poetry  and  had  issued 
"Tamerlane  and  Other  Poems,"  and  even  his  second  book, 
"Al  Aaraaf,  Tamerlane,  and  Minor  Poems,"  before  he  en- 
tered West  Point.  What  wonder,  then,  that  he  grew  restless 
under  the  regime  that  left  him  little  time  to  follow  his  grow- 
ing genius!  What  wonder  also  that  Mr.  Allan  grew  weary  of 
Poe's  vacillation  and  refused  him  the  release  that  he  wished! 
Poe,  however,  was  not  to  be  detained  by  such  bonds  and 
promptly  brought  about  his  own  dismissal.  Mr.  Allan  now 
declared  himself  free  of  all  responsibility  for  his  adopted  son 
and  from  this  time,  when  Poe  was  twenty-two  years  old,  the 
fateful  pei  iod  of  his  career  began.  Before  leaving  West  Point 
a  group  of  his  student  friends  had  by  their  subscriptions 
made  possible  the  publication  of  another  volume  of  his  poems, 


336  BIOGRAPHICAL   NOTES 

but  Poe  could  expect  no  financial  return  from  this  little  book 
and  with  only  his  talents  as  capital  he  went  to  Baltimore. 
Here  he  lodged  with  his  aunt,  Mrs.  Clemm,  and  made  what 
he  could  by  articles,  poems,  and  stories,  until  his  work  at- 
tracted the  attention  of  the  editor  of  the  "Southern  Literary 
Messenger"  with  which  Poe  formed  a  connection.  It  was 
while  lodging  with  his  aunt  that  he  became  deeply  attached 
to  his  child  cousin,  Virginia  Clemm,  a  girl  of  delicate  beauty, 
and  before  she  had  reached  her  fourteenth  year,  they  were 
married.  Unfortunately  Poe  remained  but  a  short  time 
longer  with  the  "  Messenger"  and  after  a  season  in  New  York 
City,  where  he  brought  out  the  "Narrative  of  Arthur  Gor- 
don Pym,"  he  shifted  to  Philadelphia,  contributing  critical 
articles  and  stories  to  many  publications.  The  irregularity 
of  his  habits  made  it  difficult  for  him  to  retain  editorial  posi- 
tions, although  he  held  several,  notably  that  of  associate 
editor  of  Burton's  "Gentleman's  Magazine"  of  New  York 
City.  His  stories  won  popular  success  before  his  poems. 
As  a  critic,  too,  he  was  becoming  widely  known,  and  while 
he  made  some  bitter  attacks  upon  his  contemporaries  which 
afterwards  reacted  upon  him,  his  criticism  was  penetrating 
and  brilliant  and  certain  dicta  of  his  concerning  poetry  have 
become  a  touchstone  for  the  judgment  of  that  art.  Poe's 
own  poetic  fame  in  a  popular  sense  came  with  the  publica- 
tion of  "The  Raven  and  Other  Poems"  in  1845.  "The  Ra- 
ven" could  not  fail  of  instantaneous  appeal  and  Poe  found 
his  name  in  all  mouths.  This  did  not,  however,  solve  the 
financial  problem  which  he  had  continually  to  face.  In  1846 
the  family  moved  to  Fordham,  then  several  miles  outside 
the  city  limits,  and  here,  in  the  small  cottage  now  owned  by 
an  association  and  kept  as  a  memorial  of  Poe,  the  severest 
trial  of  his  life  began.  His  young  wife  Virginia,  for  whom 
Poe  had  an  almost  worshipful  attachment,  was  already  far 
advanced  in  consumption  and  died  in  the  following  year. 
One  of  his  friends,  writing  of  the  family  after  Poe's  own  death 
says,  "His  love  for  his  wife  was  a  sort  of  rapturous  worship 
of  the  spirit  of  beauty,  which  he  felt  was  fading  before  his 
eyes."  After  the  death  of  Virginia,  Poe  made  ineffectual 
attempts  to  found  a  magazine  and  to  secure  some  stability 
of  life.  What  is  less  understandable,  he  soon  turned  for  con- 
solation to  other  women  and  became  engaged  to  Sarah  Helen 
Whitman,  a  poet  of  Providence,  Rhode  Island,  to  whom  he 
wrote  two  of  his  most  beautiful  poems.  Mrs.  Whitman  broke 
the  engagement,  owing  to  Poe's  habits,  but  always  retained 
an  affection  for  the  poet.  The  following  year  Poe  paid  a 
visit  to  his  early  home,  Richmond,  where  his  fame  opened  all 
doors  to  him  and  where  he  regained  a  degree  of  hopefulness 


BIOGRAPHICAL  NOTES  337 

and  cheer.  He  lectured  with  success  and  seemed  in  a  fair  way 
to  rehabilitate  both  his  fortunes  and  habits.  Starting  North 
again,  he  reached  Baltimore,  where  he  had  been  but  a  few 
days  when  he  was  found  in  a  helpless  condition  and  taken  to 
a  hospital  where  he  died  after  four  days  of  illness.  While 
Poe's  weakness  for  intoxicants  was  often  his  undoing,  it  is 
certain,  in  the  light  of  more  recent  investigation  into  his  life 
that  this  weakness  has  been  exaggerated.  He  had  long  pe- 
riods of  complete  abstinence  from  stimulants  and  it  was 
rather  from  the  excitability  of  his  temperament  than  the 
amount  of  his  indulgence  that  he  was  undone.  The  smallest 
amount  of  wine,  taken  in  a  social  gathering,  was  sufficient 
to  create  havoc  with  Poe,  whereas  many  who  indulged  much 
more  freely  escaped  criticism.  Editors  who  employed  him 
testified  to  his  faithfulness  to  his  work  over  considerable 
periods  of  time.  Poe's  frailty  was  exaggerated  and  used  as 
a  weapon  against  him  by  many  who  had  suffered  from  his 
caustic  criticism.  Time  is  giving  a  clearer  understanding  of 
the  spirit  of  the  man.  Poe  had  unique  genius,  both  in  poetry 
and  fiction;  his  short  stories  are  masterpieces  of  construction 
and  romantic  imagination.  His  poetry  is  to  the  last  degree 
haunting  and  magical.  Poe's  influence  upon  French  poets 
has  been  great  and  to  him  the  early  masters  of  the  Sym- 
bolist School  acknowledged  their  debt. 

PROCTOR,  EDNA  DEAN.  Born  in  Henniker,  New  Hamp- 
shire, 1838.  Miss  Proctor  has  lived  chiefly  in  South  Fram- 
ingham,  Massachusetts,  though  spending  much  time  abroad. 
Author  of  "Poems"  (1866);  "A  Russian  Journey"  (1872); 
"The  Song  of  the  Ancient  People"  (1892);  "The  Glory  of 
Toil"  (1916). 

RANDALL,  JAMES  RYDER.  Born  in  Baltimore,  Maryland, 
1839;  died,  1908.  James  Ryder  Randall  was  a  well-known 
journalist,  having  been  connected  with  several  important 
Southern  papers.  He  was  for  some  time  editor-in-chief  of  the 
Augusta,  Georgia,  "  Constitution,"  and  later  formed  a  con- 
nection with  the  "Baltimore  American."  As  a  poet  he  is 
known  chiefly  for  his  stirring  battle-hymn,  "Maryland, 
My  Maryland,"  one  of  the  finest  poems  of  the  Civil  War. 

READ,  THOMAS  BUCHANAN.  Born  in  Chester  County, 
Pennsylvania,  March  12,  1822;  died  in  New  York  City,  May 
11,  1872.  Read  was  a  portrait-painter  as  well  as  a  poet,  hav 
ing  studied  in  Rome  and,  after  his  return  to  America,  fol- 
lowed the  practice  of  his  art  in  various  cities.  His  stirring 
poem,  "Sheridan's  Ride,"  is  known  to  every  schoolboy  in 
America,  but  the  poems  quoted  in  this  collection  represent 
him  more  adequately. 

REALF,  RICHARD.    Born  in  Framfield,  Sussex,  England^ 


BIOGRAPHICAL  NOTES 


1834;  died,  by  his  own  hand,  in  Oakland,  California,  1878. 
The  tragedy  of  the  death  of  Richard  Realf  was  infinitely  sad, 
coming,  as  it  did,  after  a  life  of  activity  in  so  many  noble 
causes.  In  his  youth  he  had  the  privilege  of  association  with 
many  English  writers,  among  them  the  poet  Rogers,  Miss 
Mitford,  and  Harriet  Martineau.  He  also  became  a  favorite 
with  Lady  Byron  who  made  him  a  steward  on  one  of  hei 
estates.  He  emigrated  to  America  and  went  to  Kansas,  but 
returning  to  New  York  became  an  assistant  at  the  Five  Points 
House  of  Industry.  This  was  during  the  agitation  which 
preceded  the  outbreak  of  the  Civil  War,  and  Realf,  who  ac- 
tively seconded  the  plans  of  John  Brown,  went  to  Europe 
to  give  lectures  upon  the  anti-slavery  movement.  When 
the  war  finally  came,  he  enlisted  in  the  Union  Army  and 
was  commended  for  gallantry  at  Chickamauga  and  else- 
where. His  poems  were  gathered  and  published,  with  a  sym- 
pathetic memoir,  by  his  friend  Colonel  Richard  J.  Hinton, 
in  1899. 

REESE,  LIZETTE  WOODWORTH.  Born  in  Baltimore,  Mary- 
land, January  9,  1856.  Educated  in  the  schools  of  that  city. 
She  has  been  for  many  years  a  teacher  of  English  in  West 
High  School  of  Baltimore.  Her  volumes  of  verse  are:  "A 
Branch  of  May"  (1887);  "A  Handful  of  Lavender"  (1891); 
"A  Quiet  Road"  (1896);  "A  Wayside  Lute"  (1909).  Miss 
Reese  has  a  lyric  gift  unique  in  its  strict  Saxon  simplicity. 
Her  work  has  an  early,  Old-World  flavor,  a  quaintness,  a 
magic  of  phrase  that  renders  it  wholly  individual. 

RILEY,  JAMES  WHITCOMB.  Born  in  Greenfield,  Indiana, 
in  June,  1853;  died  in  Indianapolis,  July,  1916.  He  occupied 
a  field  unique  in  American  literature  and  probably  no  poet 
came  as  near  to  the  heart  of  the  people.  Popularly  known  as 
"The  Hoosier  Poet,"  because  his  verse  was  largely  written 
in  the  dialect  of  the  common  people  of  his  native  State  of 
Indiana,  he  was  yet  a  poet  of  the  truest  gifts,  and  many  of 
his  dialect  poems  bid  fair  to  become  classic.  Mr.  Riley  did 
not  confine  himself,  however,  to  the  use  of  dialect,  but  wrote 
some  exquisite  poetry  in  other  fields.  Unlike  many  poets, 
he  lived  to  see  himself  not  only  the  most  beloved  and  honored 
citizen  of  his  native  State,  which  annually  celebrates  "Riley 
Day,"  but  the  most  widely  known  and  beloved  poet  of  his 
period  in  America.  The  Biographical  Edition  of  his  complete 
works  (1913)  contains  all  of  the  earlier  volumes. 

SANTAYANA,  GEORGE  E.  Born  in  Madrid,  Spain,  Decem- 
ber 16,  1863.  He  was  for  several  years  Professor  of  Philos- 
ophy at  Harvard  University,  and  has  written  important  works 
in  this  field,  particularly  "The  Sense  of  Beauty,"  1896,  and 
"Interpretations  of  Poetry  and  Religion,"  1900.  His  work 


BIOGRAPHICAL   NOTES  339 

in  poetry  has  been  largely  in  the  sonnet  form,  of  which  he 
has  a  classic  mastery.  His  volumes  of  verse  are:  "Sonnets 
and  Other  Poems"  (1894);  "Lucifer "(1899);  "The  Hermit 
of  Carmel"  (1901);  "Collected  Sonnets"  (1910). 

SAVAGE,  PHILIP  HENRY.  Born  in  North  Brookfield,  Mas- 
sachusetts, 1868;  died,  1899.  Philip  Henry  Savage,  son  of 
;he  Reverend  Minot  J.  Savage,  was  one  of  the  little  group  of 
poets  at  Harvard  which  included  George  Cabot  Lodge, 
Trumbull  Stickney,  and  William  Vaughn  Moody,  all  of 
whom  died  while  still  in  youth.  While  less  endowed  with 
poetic  genius  than  some  of  the  others,  Savage  had  distinct 
gifts  and  a  fine  idealism  which  pervaded  his  work.  His  early 
death  was  met  heroically  and  some  of  his  best  poems  were 
written  in  its  imminence.  He  published  '*First  Poems  and 
Fragments"  (1895)  and  "Poems"  (1898). 

SCOLLARD,  CLINTON.  Born  in  Clinton,  New  York,  Sep- 
tember 18,  1860.  Graduated  at  Hamilton  College  in  1881. 
He  afterwards  studied  at  Harvard  L7niversity  and  at  Cam- 
bridge, England.  He  was  Professor  of  English  Literature  at 
Hamilton  College,  1888-96.  Mr.  Scollard  has  been  a  volu- 
minous writer,  but  his  more  important  books  are:  "The  Hills 
of  Song"  (1895);  "The  Lutes  of  Morn"  (1901);  "Lyrics  of 
the  Dawn"  (1902);  "The  Lyric  Bough"  (1904);  "Chords  of 
the  Zither"  (1910);  "Sprays  of  Shamrock"  (1914);  "Poems," 
a  selection  from  his  complete  work  (1914);  "Italy  in  Arms" 
(1915);  "The  Vale  of  Shadows"  (1915);  "Ballads,  Patriotic 
and  Romantic"  (1916). 

SILL,  EDWARD  ROWLAND.  Born  in  Windsor,  Connecticut, 
1841;  died  in  Cleveland,  Ohio,  1887.  Edward  Rowland  Sill 
was  a  poet  of  rare  gifts  and  his  death,  when  scarcely  in  middle 
life,  cut  short  a  richly  maturing  talent.  Most  of  his  life  was 
spent  in  teaching.  After  his  graduation  at  Yale,  in  1861,  he 
was  first  connected  with  a  school  at  Cuyahoga  Falls,  Ohio, 
but  for  several  years  prior  to  his  death  was  Professor  of  Eng- 
lish Literature  at  the  University  of  California.  His  complete 
poems  have  been  collected  and  also  a  complete  edition  of  hi? 
prose  work. 

SHERMAN,  FRANK  DEMPSTER.  Born  in  Peekskill,  Xe\v 
York,  May  6,  1860;  died  September  19,  1916.  He  took  the 
degree  of  Ph.B.  from  Columbia  University  in  1884,  and  was 
Professor  of  Graphics  in  Columbia  School  of  Architecture 
from  1904  until  his  death.  He  was  the  author  of  "  Madrigals 
and  Catches"  (1887);  "Lyrics  for  a  Lute"  (1890);  "Little 
Folk  Lyrics"  (1892) ;  "  Lyrics  of  Joy  "  (1904) ;  and  "  A  South- 
ern Flight"  (with  Clinton  Scollard),  (1906). 

SPALDING,  SUSAN  MARR.  Born  in  Bath,  Maine,  18 — . 
Mrs.  Spalding  is  best  known  by  her  lyric,  "Fate,"  although 


340  BIOGRAPHICAL   NOTES 

she  has  written  other  excellent  poems  contained  in  her  col- 
lection, "The  Wings  of  Icarus"  (1892). 

SPOFFORD,  HARRIET  PRFSCOTT.  Born  in  Calais,  Maine, 
1835.  Mrs.  Spofford  has  been  known  since  her  early  youth 
as  one  of  our  finest  short-story  writers,  and  several  sustained 
novels  have  also  come  from  her  pen.  It  is  unnecessary  here 
to  list  her  volumes  of  fiction,  but  she  is  the  author  of  "The 
Marquis  of  Carabas,"  poems  (1882);  "Ballads  About  Au- 
thors" (1887);  and  "In  Titian's  Garden,  and  Other  Poems" 
(1897). 

STANTON,  FRANK  L.  Born  in  Charleston,  South  Carolina, 
1857.  Mr.  Stanton  has  been  connected  for  many  years  with 
the  staff  of  the  "Atlanta  Constitution"  where  his  lyrics 
appear  daily  and  have  made  for  themselves  a  secure  place  in 
the  hearts  of  a  multitude  of  Southern  readers.  They  have 
also  reached  a  wide  audience  through  his  volumes  "Songs  of 
the  Soil"  (1894);  "Comes  One  With  a  Song"  (1899);  "Songs 
From  Dixie  Land"  (1900);  and  "Up  From  Georgia"  (1902). 

STEDMAN,  EDMUND  CLARENCE.  Born  in  Hartford,  Con- 
necticut, October  8,  1833;  died  in  New  York  City,  January 
18,  1908.  Mr.  Stedman  was  for  many  years  the  foremost 
critic  of  America  and  exerted  a  great  influence  upon  our 
poetry  through  his  sympathetic  interpretations  and  the  far- 
reaching  inspiration  of  his  personal  relations  with  poets. 
The  activity  of  Mr.  Stedman's  life  and  the  variety  of  his  in- 
terests rebuke  those  who  are  content  with  a  half  expression 
of  their  talents.  Stedman's  youth  was  like  that  of  many 
ambitious  boys:  he  graduated  at  Yale,  having  taken  first 
prize  for  a  poem  on  "Westminster  Abbey,"  and  plunged  into 
journalism,  editing  papers  in  small  towns  in  New  England. 
Emboldened  to  try  his  luck  in  New  York  City,  he  secured  a 
place  with  Horace  Greeley  on  the  "Tribune"  where  "Osa- 
watomie  Brown"  and  other  early  poems  were  published. 
In  1860  he  joined  the  staff  of  the  "New  York  World,"  re- 
maining as  war  correspondent  until  1863.  Here  an  entirely 
new  phase  was  introduced  into  his  life  and  one  seemingly 
antagonistic  to  literature.  He  aided  in  the  construction  and 
financial  affairs  of  the  first  Pacific  Railway  and  so  was  led 
into  Wall  Street,  where  he  remained  as  an  active  member  of 
the  Stock  Exchange  for  nearly  forty  years.  Mr.  Stedman  has 
himself  said  that  he  entered  Wall  Street  as  a  door  to  means 
and  leisure  to  prosecute  his  literary  work,  a  task  in  which  he 
was  assiduous  to  the  hour  of  his  death.  Volumes  of  his  own 
verse  alternated  with  critical  studies  of  English  and  Ameri- 
can poets,  and  lectures  at  Johns  Hopkins  University,  Colum- 
bia University,  and  other  academic  centers.  He  received  the 
degree  of  L.H.D.  from  Columbia  and  of  LL.D.  from  Yale. 


BIOGRAPHICAL   NOTES  341 

In  addition  to  his  poems,  Mr.  Stedman  was  the  author  of 
"Victorian  Poets,"  a  volume  of  criticism  (1875);  "Poets  of 
America,"  covering  a  similar  field  in  our  literature  (1885); 
"The  Nature  and  Elements  of  Poetry"  (1892);  and  was 
editor  of  "A  Victorian  Anthology"  (1895)  and  "An  Ameri- 
can Anthology"  (1900). 

STODDARD,  CHARLES  WARREN.  Born  in  Rochester,  New 
York,  1843,  died  1909.  Mr.  Stoddard  was  a  wide  traveler, 
visiting  many  countries  and  writing  his  impressions  both  ia 
prose  and  verse.  When  a  lad  he  attracted  the  attention  of 
Bret  Harte  who  edited  his  first  book  of  verse.  When  not 
traveling  or  living  in  the  Hawaiian  Islands,  his  time  was 
spent  chiefly  in  California,  varied  by  a  period  of  teaching  lit- 
erature at  Notre  Dame  College,  South  Bend,  Indiana,  and 
at  the  Catholic  University  of  Washington,  D.  C. 

STODDARD,  ELIZABETH,  Born  in  Mattapoisett,  Massa- 
chusetts, May  6,  1823;  died  in  New  York  City,  August  1, 
1902.  Mrs.  Stoddard  was  the  wife  of  Richard  Henry  Stod- 
dard, the  poet,  and  their  home  in  New  York  was  for  many 
years  a  center  for  the  literary  life  of  the  city.  Mrs.  Stoddard 
was  a  frequent  contributor  of  poetry  to  the  magazines  and 
wrote  several  novels.  Her  complete  poems  were  issued  in 
1895. 

STODDARD,  RICHARD  HENRY.  Born  in  Hingham,  Massa- 
chusetts, July  2, 1825;  died  in  New  York  City,  May  12, 1903. 
The  life  of  Richard  Henry  Stoddard  is  particularly  interest- 
ing from  the  fact  that,  although  he  became  one  of  the  fore- 
most men  of  letters  of  his  time,  he  was  almost  wholly  self- 
educated  and  spent  much  of  his  early  youth  working  in  an 
iron  foundry.  During  this  time,  however,  he  was  eagerly 
reading  and  studying  the  great  writers,  particularly  the 
poets,  and  beginning  to  try  his  own  skill  at  verse.  Just  at  this 
juncture  he  gained  the  friendship  of  Bayard  Taylor,  who  en- 
couraged and  stimulated  him  and  published  his  first  verses  in 
the  "Union  Magazine"  which  Taylor  was  temporarily  edit- 
ing. Stoddard  now  turned  his  attention  entirely  to  writing 
and  became  a  contributor  to  the  "Knickerbocker"  and  other 
magazines.  His  collection  of  poetry,  issued  in  1852,  brought 
him  recognition  and  the  friendship  of  Thomas  Buchanan 
Read  and  other  poets  of  the  day.  More  important,  however, 
was  the  friendship  which  he  formed  with  Hawthorne,  whom 
he  visited  at  Concord  and  who  was  instrumental  in  securing 
for  Stoddard  a  position  in  the  New  York  Custom  House 
which  he  held  for  seventeen  years.  This  work,  however,  left 
him  leisure  for  writing  and  from  1860  to  1870  he  was  literary 
editor  of  the  "  New  York  World."  After  leaving  the  Custom 
House,  he  accepted  a  position  with  the  "  New  York  Mail  and 


S42  BIOGRAPHICAL   NOTES 

Express"  as  literary  editor  and  retained  it  for  over  twenty 
years.  In  his  age  Stoddard  was  a  venerable  figure  in  New 
York  City  life  and  was  the  recipient  of  many  honors.  His 
work  in  poetry  was  collected  into  a  definitive  edition  after  his 
death.  His  fame  rests  chiefly  upon  a  little  group  of  lyrics,  of 
which  "The  Flight  of  Youth,"  one  of  his  early  poems,  seems 
likely  to  hold  the  most  secure  place. 

STORY,  WILLIAM  WETMORE.  Born  in  Salem,  Massachu- 
setts, February  12,  1819;  died  in  Vallambrosa,  Italy,  October 
7,  1895.  Mr.  Story  spent  the  creative  part  of  his  life  in  Italy 
achieving  fame  as  a  sculptor,  writing  poetry  much  read  in 
its  day,  and  exquisite  studies  of  Italian  life  and  art,  such  as 
"Roba  di  Roma,"  one  of  the  finest  books  upon  the  Eternal 
City.  He  lived  for  ye<.rs  in  the  old  Barberini  Palace,  one  of 
the  most  celebrated  in  Rome,  and  led  an  enviable  life  with 
art  and  poetry  and  friendships.  This  career,  however,  nearly 
miscarried,  as  his  youth  was  spent  in  the  law,  an  occupation 
which  he  may  be  said  to  have  inherited  from  his  father,  Jus- 
tice Joseph  Story,  of  the  United  States  Supreme  Court. 
That  he  recognized  his  true  gift  before  it  was  too  late  is  a 
matter  for  gratitude.  One  of  Mr.  Story's  finest  pieces  of 
sculpture  is  the  tomb  of  his  wife  in  the  Protestant  Cemetery 
at  Rome,  where  he  now  lies  beside  her,  only  a  few  yards  from 
the  grave  of  Shelley. 

TABB,  JOHN  BANNISTER.    Born  in  Amelia  County,  Vir- 

finia,  1845;  died,  1909.  Father  Tabb,  a  priest  and  teacher  in 
t.  Charles  College,  Maryland,  was,  in  poetry,  a  carver  ot 
cameos.  His  work  is  almost  wholly  in  very  brief  lyrics 
wrought  with  infinite  pains.  He  is  the  lapidary  of  verse  anvl 
his  gemlike  work  is  cold  and  shining.  Nevertheless,  it  is 
artistically  distinguished  and  unique.  Prior  to  taking  orders 
in  the  Church,  Father  Tabb  served  as  captain's  mate  on  a 
blockade-runner  in  the  Civil  War.  He  was  the  author  of 
'Poems"  (1894)  and  "Lyrics"  (1897). 

TAYLOR,  BAYARD.  Born  in  Kennett  Square,  Pennsylvania, 
January  11,  1825;  died  in  Berlin,  Germany,  December  19, 
1878.  The  career  of  Bayard  Taylor  was  a  constantly  shifting 
romance,  comparable  only  to  a  kaleidoscope  in  which  every 
turn  brings  out  a  design.  From  his  earliest  boyhood  in  a  little 
Quaker  town,  he  was  imbued  with  two  ambitions  —  to  travel 
and  to  be  a  poet;  neither  of  which,  from  obvious  circum- 
stances, seemed  at  all  probable.  But  Life,  which  is  always  in 
league  with  the  dreamer,  brought  both  to  pass.  He  began  at 
seven  years  of  age  to  write  poetry  and  at  sixteen  published  his 
first  verses.  At  nineteen  he  brought  out  his  first  book,  "Xi- 
men,  or  the  Battle  of  the  Sierra  Morena."  In  this  year  the 
second  desire  of  his  life  urged  him  to  make  trial  of  himself 


BIOGRAPHICAL   NOTES  343 

and  he  went  abroad,  traveling  about  Europe  on  foot  for 
nearly  two  years,  with  his  only  luggage  a  knapsack  and  a 
scanty  supply  of  script.  From  this  trip,  however,  came 
"Views  Afoot,"  almost  the  pioneer  travel  book  of  America, 
and  immediately  the  poet-wanderer  found  the  fates  smiJing 
upon  him.  Soon  after  his  return  he  became  head  of  the  liter- 
ary department  of  the  "New  York  Tribune,"  but  no  office 
could  hold  so  restless  a  spirit  and  at  the  outbreak  of  the  gold- 
fever  in  California  in  '49,  he  joined  the  seekers,  bringing  back, 
not  gold,  but  the  story  of  its  pursuit,  in  "Eldorado."  He 
married  Miss  Mary  Agnew,  a  childhood  friend,  who  was  in- 
curably ill  and  who  lived  but  two  months  following  the  mar- 
riage. This  grief  sent  the  poet  to  Europe  again  and  on  into 
the  East,  the  land  which  had  been  to  him  the  dream  within 
the  dream.  Here  his  poetic  gift  came  suddenly  into  flower, 
and  nearly  all  of  his  finest  lyrics  from  this  period  relate  to  the 
East  to  which  he  made  many  subsequent  trips.  In  1856  he 
again  visited  Europe  and  was  warmly  received  by  scholars 
and  writers,  particularly  in  Germany,  where  he  married  a 
daughter  of  the  astronomer,  Professor  Hansen.  Returning 
to  America,  he  established  the  beautiful  home,  "  Cedarcroft," 
in  his  native  Pennsylvania  village,  and  in  such  intervals  as 
were  spent  in  its  retirement,  produced  poetry,  novels,  essays, 
books  of  travel,  and  translations.  To  literature  and  travel 
he  added  diplomacy,  and  was  sent  as  secretary  to  the  Ameri- 
can legation  in  Russia  and  as  United  States  Minister  to  Ger- 
many, a  position  which  he  eagerly  accepted  in  the  hope  that 
it  would  give  him  leisure  to  write  a  "Life"  of  Goethe,  which 
he  had  long  had  in  mind.  This  ambition,  however,  was  not 
to  be  fulfilled,  as  he  was  stricken  with  illness  not  long  after 
his  arrival  at  Berlin  and  died  there  in  a  few  weeks. 

THAXTER,  CELIA.  Born  in  Portsmouth,  New  Hampshire, 
1830;  died  at  Appledore  Island,  New  Hampshire,  June  29, 
1891.  The  life  of  Celia  Thaxter  has  a  romantic  charm  from 
the  fact  that  it  was  largely  spent  upon  the  Isles  of  Shoals, 
where  her  father  was  keeper  of  the  lighthouse,  and  many  of 
her  poems  were  written  out  of  this  environment.  She  mar- 
ried Levi  Lincoln  Thaxter,  but  continued  to  live  for  the 
greater  part  of  the  time  upon  the  islands.  She  was  an  artist 
ss  well  as  a  poet  and  illustrated  many  of  her  own  books. 

THOMAS,  EDITH  M.  Born  in  Chatham,  Ohio,  August  12, 
1854.  Educated  at  the  Normal  Institute  of  Geneva,  Ohio. 
Almost  from  the  outset  of  her  work,  Edith  Thomas  has  been 
one  of  the  finest  lyric  poets  of  her  period.  Her  early  work  was 
largely  influenced  by  Greek  literature  and  she  has  written 
many  lyrics  of  classical  beauty.  Her  recent  work,  however, 
is  more  intimate  and  personal,  the  emotional  reaction  to  her 


344  BIOGRAPHICAL   NOTES 

own  experience.  Her  work,  indeed,  is  almost  wholly  sub- 
jective and  altogether  of  a  rare  and  subtle  quality.  Since 
1888  Miss  Thomas  has  made  her  home  in  New  York  Citv, 
where  she  is  attached  to  the  staff  of  "Harper's  Magazine?' 
Her  best-known  volumes  are:  "The  Inverted  Torch"  (1890); 
"A  Winter  Swallow"  (1896);  "The  Dancers"  (1903);  "The 
Guest  at  the  Gate"  (1909);  and  "The  Flower  From  the 
Ashes"  (1915). 

THOMPSON,  MAURICE.  Born  in  Fairfield,  Indiana,  Septem- 
ber 9,  1844;  died  in  Crawfordsville,  Indiana,  February  15, 
1901.  Thompson  served  in  his  early  youth  in  the  Confeder- 
ate army  and  later  studied  and  practiced  law  in  Indiana. 
These  activities  were  varied  by  the  writing  of  poetry  and 
criticism,  and  in  1890  he  became  one  of  the  staff  of  the  "  New 
York  Independent,"  where  his  critical  work  attracted  wide 
attention. 

THOMPSON,  WILL  H.  Born  in  Calhoun,  Georgia,  1848.  A 
brother  to  Maurice  Thompson  and  closely  associated  with 
him  in  all  activities  and  pleasures.  Like  his  brother  he  served 
in  the  Confederate  army  and  after  the  war  established  him- 
self in  a  law  partnership  with  his  brother  at  Crawfordsville, 
Indiana.  When  literature  drew  Maurice  away  from  the  law, 
Will  Thompson  removed  to  Seattle,  Washington,  where  he 
carried  on  the  practice  of  his  profession.  He  is  well  known  as 
a  public  speaker  and  is  active  in  social  reforms.  He  is  the 
author  of  "High  Tide  at  Gettysburg,"  one  of  the  finest  poems 
of  the  Civil  War. 

THOREAU,  HENRY  DAVID.  Born  in  Concord,  Massachu- 
setts, July  12,  1817;  died  there  May  6,  1862.  Thoreau  was 
the  most  thorough  nonconformist  in  American  literature. 
His  entire  life  was  one  of  intellectual  independence  and  per- 
sonal isolation.  He  did  only  so  much  work  as  sufficed  to 
maintain  him,  and  this  in  the  most  desultory  fashion,  turn- 
ing from  teaching  to  pencil-making,  from  pencil-making  to 
farming,  from  farming  to  lecturing,  as  might  suit  the  im- 
mediate necessity,  but  never  relaxing  in  the  mental  activities 
which  constituted  his  real  life.  He  was  not  at  all  troubled 
about  being  considered  eccentric  and  indeed  seemed  to  court 
this  reputation.  Although  educated  at  Harvard  and  widely 
read,  he  sought  the  most  primitive  social  conditions  and 
lived  for  several  years  in  the  little  hut  on  WTalden  Pond,  built 
with  his  own  hands  on  property  owned  by  Emerson.  De- 
spite his  personal  eccentricities,  Thoreau  was  one  of  the  great 
spirits  of  his  time,  perhaps  of  all  time.  His  poetry  is  of  little 
moment  in  the  sum  of  his  achievement.  It  was  as  a  natural- 
ist and  philosopher  that  his  genius  found  its  expression,  and 
it  is  characteristic  of  him  that  most  of  his  work  was  not  pub- 


BIOGRAPHICAL   NOTES  345 

lished  during  his  lifetime,  but  was  afterwards  rescued  from  a 
diary  of  thirty  volumes  begun  in  his  student  days  at  Harvard 
and  continued  until  his  death.  His  "Works"  and  "Familiar 
Letters"  (1894)  contain  the  many  books  compiled  from  the 
diaries  together  with  those  published  during  his  lifetime. 

TIMROD,  HENRY.  Born  in  Charleston,  South  Carolina, 
1829;  died  in  Columbia,  South  Carolina,  1867.  Henry  Tim- 
rod  was  one  of  the  most  gifted  of  the  Southern  poets,  but 
like  his  friend,  Paul  Hamilton  Hayne,  suffered  to  such  a  degree 
from  the  devastation  wrought  by  the  war  that  his  gifts  had 
no  opportunity  to  develop  as  they  would  have  done  undar 
more  favorable  circumstances.  He  was  the  son  of  a  book- 
binder, who  was  himself  something  of  a  poet.  At  the  out- 
break of  the  Civil  War,  he  became  a  correspondent  of  the 
"Charleston  Mercury"  and  later  assistant  editor  of  the 
"South  Carolinian"  of  Columbia.  Sherman's  troops  so 
devastated  this  region  that  Timrod's  home  in  Columbia  was 
broken  up,  and  the  death  of  a  favorite  child  having  still 
further  saddened  him,  he  was  unable  to  regain  a  hold  upon 
life.  After  a  struggle  of  two  or  three  years  with  poverty  and 
illness,  he  died  while  still  at  the  best  promise  of  his  art.  His 
poems,  which  were  originally  printed  in  1869,  were  neces- 
sarily neglected  owing  to  the  public  mind  being  focused  upon 
the  approaching  war,  but  his  friend,  Paul  Hamilton  Hayne, 
rescued  them  and  in  1873  published  them  with  a  fitting  and 
sympathetic  memoir. 

TROWBRIDGE,  JOHN  TOWNSEND.  Born  in  Ogden,  New 
York,  September  18,  1827;  died  in  Arlington,  Massachu- 
setts, 1915.  Mr.  Trowbridge  was  known  chiefly  as  a  writer 
i'or  boys,  having  published  a  great  number  of  stories  in  this 
field.  He  was  the  son  of  a  farmer  and  spent  his  early  youth 
on  the  farm,  having  only  the  education  of  the  common 
schools  supplemented  by  a  term  at  a  classical  academy. 
Nevertheless,  Mr.  Trowbridge  was  a  man  of  wide  cultivation, 
having  read  and  studied  throughout  his  life.  He  had  many 
close  friendships  with  the  New  England  writers  and  his  auto- 
biography, "My  Own  Story,"  published  in  the  "Atlantic 
Monthly,"  to  which  he  was  one  of  the  first  contributors,  is  full 
of  charm  and  interest.  His  best-known  poem  is  "The  Vaga- 
bonds," although  he  has  done  other  work  of  a  finer  if  less 
popular  quality.  His  poems  may  now  be  obtained  in  a  com- 
plete edition. 

VAN  DYKE,  HENRY.  Born  in  Germantown,  Pennsylvania, 
1852.  Educated  at  Princeton  University,  Princeton  Theo- 
logical Seminary,  and  Berlin  University.  Dr.  Van  Dyke 
spent  his  earlier  years  in  the  ministry,  but  left  it  to  become 
Professor  of  English  Literature  at  Princeton  University, 


346  BIOGRAPHICAL   NOTES 

\vhere  he  remained  for  many  years.  He  has  been  a  volumi- 
nous writer  in  the  field  of  theology,  criticism,  fiction,  and 
poetry.  Several  of  his  volumes  have  attained  a  wide  circula- 
tion, notably  "Little  Rivers,"  "Fisherman's  Luck,"  "The 
Blue  Flower,"  "The  Story  of  the  Other  Wise  Man,"  etc. 
In  criticism  he  has  written  authoritatively  upon  Tennyson  and 
other  poets.  "Collected  Poems"  (1911)  include  several  vol- 
umes previously  issued.  Dr.  Van  Dyke  was  appointed 
Minister  to  The  Hague  in  1913,  retaining  the  position  until 
1917  when  he  resigned  to  resume  literary  work.  He  was  an 
excellent  diplomat  and  rendered  valuable  service  to  his  coun- 
try during  the  first  three  years  of  the  European  War. 

VERY,  JONES.  Born  in  Salem,  Massachusetts,  August  22, 
1813;  died  there,  May,  1880.  His  father  was  a  sea  captain 
and  the  son  went  with  him  upon  many  voyages.  He  was 
educated  at  Harvard  and  taught  Greek  there  for  a  short  time 
after  his  graduation.  He  belonged  to  the  Transcendental- 
ist  group  of  writers  and  was  a  close  friend  of  Emerson  and 
Channing,  and  of  James  Freeman  Clarke,  who  edited  the 
complete  posthumous  edition  of  his  work. 

WARNER,  CHARLES  DUDLEY.  Born  in  Plainfield,  Massa- 
chusetts, September  12,  1829;  died  in  Hartford,  Connecticut, 
October  20, 1900.  Charles  Dudley  Warner  was  chiefly  known 
as  an  editor,  an  essayist,  and  a  writer  upon  social  topics.  He 
was  editor-in-chief  of  the  "Warner  Library  of  the  World's 
Best  Literature."  He  wrote  but  little  poetry,  but  occasion- 
ally did  an  admirable  bit  of  verse  such  as  the  sonnet  included 
in  this  collection. 

WHITMAN,  SARAH  HELEN.  Born  in  Providence,  Rhode  Is- 
land, 1803;  died  there,  1879.  She  is  chiefly  known  for  her  asso- 
ciation with  Edgar  Allan  Poe,  to  whom  she  was  betrothed  in 
1848.  The  engagement  with  Poe  was  broken,  owing  to  the 
irregularity  of  the  poet's  habits,  but  Mrs.  Whitman  remained 
his  admirer  and  in  1860  published  a  monograph  in  his  de- 
fense, entitled  "Edgar  Allan  Poe  and  His  Critics."  Many  of 
her  poems  also  relate  to  Poe,  and  recently  the  poet's  letters 
to  her  were  published  with  an  interesting  account  of  the 
association. 

WHITMAN,  WALT.  Born  in  West  Hills,  Long  Island,  May 
31,  1819;  died  in  Camden,  New  Jersey,  March  26,  1892.  It 
is  impossible  in  a  brief  space  to  do  justice  to  the  influence  of 
Walt  Whitman  upon  the  development  of  poetry  since  his 
period,  or  to  show  the  successive  stages  by  which  his  work 
overcame  prejudice  and  antagonism  before  this  influence 
could  become  effective.  Whitman  has  been  a  great  revolu- 
tionary force,  not  only  in  our  own  poetry,  but  in  that  of  other 
countries.  The  modern  "Free  Verse"  movement  is  largely 


BIOGRAPHICAL   NOTES  347 

the  radiation  of  Whitman  who  opposed  to  conventional  form 
his  freely  flowing  rhythms.  He  may  be  said,  indeed,  to  have 
released  technique,  which  had  become  bound  in  artificial 
forms,  and  left  it  free  to  reshape  in  a  more  flexible  manner. 
There  are  always  revolutions  in  art,  but  Whitman  was  a 
world  revolutionist,  not  only  liberating  form,  but  opposing 
to  the  whole  movement  of  "Romanticism,"  which  had  per- 
sisted through  the  nineteenth  century,  the  movement  of  De- 
mocracy and  the  social  consciousness  of  life.  In  outward 
circumstances  Whitman's  life  was  not  eventful.  He  was  born 
on  a  little  farm  in  the  interior  of  Long  Island  and  the  family 
removed  when  Walt  was  a  child  to  Brooklyn,  where  he  was 
educated  in  the  public  schools  and  learned  the  printer's 
trade.  A  brief  period  of  teaching  followed,  succeeded  by  a 
longer  period  of  printing,  editing,  and  miscellaneous  writing. 
There  was  nothing  to  indicate  from  his  early  writing,  which 
was  purely  conventional  and  without  distinction,  that  a 
revolutionist  in  art  was  soon  to  flash  upon  the  world,  but 
Whitman  was  experimenting  with  the  new  form  and  in  1855 
he  startled  America  with  "Leaves  of  Grass,"  which  provoked 
at  the  outset  a  storm  of  protest,  from  its  frank  treatment  of 
sex.  Enlarged  editions  appeared  in  1856  and  in  1861  and  Whit- 
man began  to  gather  a  few  followers.  In  the  early  months  of 
the  war  he  went  to  Washington  and  began  his  three  years' 
service  as  a  visitor  and  voluntary  nurse  in  the  war  hospitals, 
where  his  assiduous  work  for  the  wounded  broke  down  his 
own  health.  "Drum-Taps,"  among  the  most  beautiful  of  his 
poems,  records  this  experience.  He  secured  a  position  in  the  In- 
terior Department,  but  was  dismissed  from  it  by  the  Secretary, 
who  could  not  grasp  the  point  of  view  of  "Leaves  of  Grass." 
This  called  forth  the  celebrated  defense  of  Whitman  by  W.  D. 
O'Connor,  wherein  the  sobriquet  of  "the  good  gray  poet" 
originated.  The  attorney-general's  office  proved  more  hospit- 
able and  Whitman  was  given  a  position  there  which  he  retained 
until  1873  when  a  stroke  of  paralysis  made  it  necessary  for 
him  to  retire  to  his  brother's  home  in  Camden,  New  Jersey. 
After  a  time  he  secured  a  little  house  of  his  own,  on  Mickle 
Street,  where  he  lived  out  his  remaining  years,  increasingly 
honored  and  recognized.  He  is  buried  in  Harleigh  Cemetery, 
Camden,  in  a  tomb  which  he  himself  designed. 

WHITTIER,  JOHN  GREEXLEAF.  Born  in  East  Haverhill, 
Massachusetts,  December  17,  1807;  died  in  Hampton  Falls, 
New  Hampshire,  September  7,  1892.  Whittier,  one  of  the 
best  beloved  of  our  poets,  belonged  particularly  to  the  people 
and  came  more  directly  from  them  than  did  his  great  New 
England  contemporaries.  Born  of  Quaker  parentage  in  hum- 
ble surroundings,  he  had  little  schooling  and  few  books,  but 


348  BIOGRAPHICAL   NOTES 

read  these  to  advantage  and  particularly  the  Bible  \vhich 
left  a  deep  influence  upon  his  work.  He  had  not  yet  ven- 
tured to  offer  his  wares  to  publishers,  when  his  sister,  having 
faith  in  his  efforts,  sent  one  of  his  poems  to  the  "Newbury 
port  Free  Press,"  then  edited  by  William  Lloyd  Garrisor 
Not  only  did  Garrison  print  the  poem,  but  took  the  youn^ 
author  into  his  own  family  that  he  might  attend  the  Haver- 
hill  Academy.  The  tuition  for  the  winter's  schooling  was 
paid  for  by  Whittier  from  money  earned  in  making  slippers. 
After  leaving  the  Academy  Whittier  began  to  contribute  to 
the  press  and  soon  made  for  himself  a  sufficiently  im- 
portant place  that  he  edited  successively  the  "American 
Manufacturer"  of  Boston,  the  "Haverhill  Gazette,"  and 
"The  New  England  Weekly  Review"  of  Hartford,  Connecti- 
cut. As  early  as  1833  he  became  identified  with  the  anti- 
slavery  cause  and  published  at  his  own  expense  the  pamph- 
let, "Justice  and  Expediency,"  one  of  the  important 
pioneer  documents  of  the  abolition  movement.  From  this 
period  until  the  cause  was  won,  Whittier  did  not  cease  to  work 
toward  its  realization.  Poems  full  of  fiery  enthusiasm  for  jus- 
tice were  constantly  appearing  in  the  papers  with  which  he 
was  connected,  but  these  have  died  with  the  crisis  which 
inspired  them  and  Whittier  himself  did  not  regard  them  as 
having  permanent  value.  Whittier  served  for  a  short  time  in 
the  Massachusetts  Legislature  and  closed  his  public  work  in 
1840,  after  a  three  years'  editorship  of  the  "Pennsylvania 
Freeman."  He  was  still  but  thirty-three  years  old,  but  deli- 
cate health  compelled  him  to  forego  active  life  and  he  retired 
to  Amesbury,  Massachusetts.  The  remainder  of  his  long  life 
was  spent  either  at  Amesbury  or  Danvers,  and  the  former 
home  is  now  kept  by  the  Whittier  Association  as  a  memorial 
of  the  poet.  Retirement  from  public  life  by  no  means  af- 
fected Whittier's  productivity,  but  gave  him  leisure  for  his 
real  work  and  over  thirty  books  came  from  his  hand  in  the 
half  century  of  life  still  remaining  to  him.  He  excelled  in 
ballad  and  narrative,  as  "Maud  Muller,"  "Skipper  Irecon's 
Ride,"  etc.,  attest;  but  his  finest  legacy  to  poetry  is  in  two 
widely  diverse  moods,  "The  Eternal  Goodness,"  written 
from  his  exquisite  and  beautiful  faith,  and  "Ichabod,"  writ- 
ten after  the  apparent  repudiation  by  Daniel  Webster  of  the 
principles  of  abolition.  In  "  Snowbound  "  he  has  given  us  not 
only  a  picture  of  winter  unsurpassed  in  its  faithfulness,  but 
an  idyl  of  New  England  rural  life.  Time  has  already  sifted 
Whittier's  offering  but  leaves  a  group  of  poems  sure  of  thei/ 
place  in  American  literature  and  dear  to  the  hearts  of  the 


people. 
Wi 


LCOX,  ELLA  WIIEELER.    Born  in  Johnstown  Center, 


BIOGRAPHICAL   NOTES 


Wisconsin,  185-.  Educated  at  the  University  of  Wisconsin. 
Married  in  1884  to  Robert  M.  Wilcox  of  Meriden,  Connecti- 
cut. Mrs.  Wilcox  has  for  many  years  enjoyed  a  wide  popu- 
larity with  the  people  and  there  are  few  homes  in  America 
where  her  work  is  not  known.  She  has  been  writing  from 
earliest  youth  and  has  published  a  great  many  volumes  of 
which  the  best  known  are  "Poems  of  Passion,"  "  Abelard  and 
Helolse,"  "Poems  of  Progress,"  "Poems  of  Power,"  and 
"Poems  of  Problems." 

WILLIS,  NATHANIEL  PARKER.  Born  in  Portland,  Maine, 
1806;  died  at  "Idlewild,"  near  Newburgh,  New  York,  1867. 
N.  P.  Willis  was  in  his  day  a  great  influence  in  the  journalistic 
world,  several  influential  periodicals  having  been  founded  and 
edited  by  him.  He  inherited  his  journalistic  talents,  his 
father  having  founded  "The  Youth's  Companion"  and  the 
"Boston  Recorder,"  to  both  of  which  his  son  contributed 
verses  and  sketches.  After  graduation  at  Yale,  where  he  won 
a  prize  for  the  best  poem,  Willis  founded  "The  American 
Monthly  Magazine,"  afterward  called  "The  Mirror."  Later 
he  established  "The  Corsair,"  to  which  Thackeray  contrib- 
uted. His  last  journalistic  venture  was  in  company  with 
G.  P.Morris  with  whom  he  founded  "The  Home  Journal," 
of  which  he  was  associate  editor  until  his  death. 

WINTER,  WILLIAM.  Born  in  Gloucester,  Massachusetts, 
1836;  died  in  New  York  City,  June  30,  1917.  Mr.  Winter 
was  through  most  of  his  long  life,  a  dramatic  critic,  although 
he  started  public  life  as  a  lawyer.  The  lure  of  literature,  how- 
ever, was  too  strong  for  him  and  in  1859  he  came  to  New  York 
and  cast  in  his  lot  with  a  struggling  little  band  of  writers  who 
afterward  became  the  prominent  men  of  letters  of  their  day. 
After  a  period  of  work  for  the  "Saturday  Press"  and  other 
papers,  he  became  the  dramatic  critic  of  the  "New  York 
Tribune,"  a  position  which  he  continued  to  hold  for  forty 
years.  He  had  a  particular  passion  for  Shakespearean  drama 
and  numbered  among  his  close  friends  all  the  great  Shakes- 
pearean actors  of  his  day.  Mr.  Winter  has  been  a  volumi- 
nous writer  both  in  dramatic  criticism  and  poetry,  varying 
these  occupations  with  charming  books  of  English  travel  and 
brief  personal  studies  of  his  friends.  The  Jeffersons,  Henry 
Irving,  Mary  Anderson,  Edwin  Booth,  and  others  have  been 
among  the  subjects  of  his  delightful  memoirs.  His  poetry  is 
now  in  a  complete  edition. 

WOODBERRY,  GEORGE  EDWARD.  Born  at  Beverly,  Massa- 
chusetts, May  12,  1855.  Graduated  from  Harvard  Univer- 
sity in  1877.  The  degree  of  Litt.D.  was  conferred  on  him  by 
Amherst  College  in  1905,  and  by  Harvard  University  in 
1911,  and  the  decree  of  LL.D.  by  Western  Reserve  Uni- 


350 BIOGRAPHICAL   NOTES 

versity  in  1907.  He  was  Professor  of  English  at  the  Uni- 
versity of  Nebraska,  1877-78;  also  1880-82,  and  was  Pro- 
fessor of  Comparative  Literature  at  Columbia  University 
1891-1904.  Professor  Woodberry  is  one  of  the  ablest  critics 
and  biographers  in  American  literature  as  well  as  one  of 
the  finest  poets.  Among  his  best-known  volumes  of  criticism 
are:  "Studies  in  Letters  and  Life,"  "The  Heart  of  Man," 
"Makers  of  Literature,"  "The  Torch,"  "The  Appreciation 
of  Literature,"  and  "The  Inspiration  of  Poetry."  In  biog- 
raphy he  has  done  admirable  studies  of  Poe,  Hawthorne, 
Shelley,  Swinburne,  Emerson,  etc. ;  and  in  poetry  he  has  pub- 
lished many  volumes,  of  which  the  most  representative  are: 
"The  North  Shore  Watch"  (1890);  "Wild  Eden"  (1900); 
"Poems"  (1903);  " The  Kingdom  of  All  Souls"  (1912);  "The 
Flight"  (1914);  and  "Ideal  Passion"  (1917). 


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